


The Bystander Effect

by TiniBopper



Series: What Makes a Person Brave [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Actually talking things through and addressing problems like rational adults is my aesthetic, Additional Tags are for things confirmed in planning or in writing, Aka the GREATEST CHARACTER in all of Undertale, Chara and Frisk Share a Body, Character Tags are for those already written for, Communication and consent and all the best parts of a functional realistic relationship, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Emotions are taken seriously, F/M, FIGHT ME WE'RE DOING FIREBUN, Flowey Is A Dick, Gen, Goat Mom Is Best Mom, Grillby is best boss, Like the slowest burn you can imagine only slower, Minor Alphys/Undyne, Minor Asgore Dreemurr/Toriel, Nonbinary Chara and Frisk, Orange Souled Reader, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Papyrus Being Papyrus, Papyrus Knows More Than He Lets On, Platonic Relationships, Reader Experiences The Underground, Reader Is Not Frisk, Reader has Severe Anxiety, Sans Has Issues, Sans Remembers Resets, Saving and Loading are a thing, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, They finally kissed and she wept tears of legitimate joy, exploration of friend shipping, the author's literally dying inside it's so slow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2018-09-21 05:08:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 53
Words: 166,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9533000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiniBopper/pseuds/TiniBopper
Summary: The Bystander Effect dictates that the more people that are present to an emergency situation, the less likely it is that anyone will step up and do something unprompted.Bravery is for story book heroes, in your opinion. Fantastic tales of daring do have never been your cup of tea. You're not brave, after all -- anxiety has made terror flow under your skin with as much familiarity and regularity as your heartbeat. You much prefer to stay in your own lane, keep to yourself,  and try not to trouble anyone unnecessarily with your problems. If the world needs a hero, you're pretty sure it won't ever be you.But then again,  sometimes the world has other ideas. After all,  how can you remain a bystander when you think akidis about to do something terribly sad and stupid?You never imagined you'd find answers to questions you had never let yourself ask.What makes a person Brave, anyway?Currently Written to: Post Waterfall





	1. This Was Not Meant For You

**Author's Note:**

> This is one hundred percent an excuse to hop on the bandwagon of Sans/Reader fics. This is also one hundred and fifty percent a reason to make fun of tropes in video games and video game fanfictions.
> 
> At least the first four or so chapters were not written entirely seriously.

There’s a faint breeze drifting through the caverns, echoing off of the ash-stained walls, and the tour group’s quiet murmuring is almost enough to drown it out. You’ve got one earphone in your ear playing soft music, doing most of the rest of the work to more or less mute the tour guide, though the sound that the wind makes on the walls is almost as interesting and pretty as the music itself. Your MP3 player is maybe about 50% depleted. You’re pretty sure this dumb little tourist jaunt was a waste of twenty bucks, but hey, it was a guided hike up the most infamous Mountain in the area, and you’ve not had many excuses to get out and get active for a while.

A couple of caverns back you almost could have sworn you saw a bat, peering out at you all through the darkness, and that alone is cool enough to be worth twenty bucks.

You peer around, mostly out of boredom at this point, thinking that maybe there might be some cool graffiti from previous tour groups -- if there’s one thing you know, it’s that people are always going to snicker over leaving quickly scribbled “Shelby was here” writings on the walls of important places. You may not have much personal desire to join in that, but you know you can expect it -- and, right there, right where you thought it would be. It’s almost cute, the way the scrawled “R.T./S.W.” is nearly hidden behind a stalagmite.

Mite? Tite? The stalagmites come out from the ground, right? You’ve got to google that later.

You cast your eyes around again in the darkness, blinking a few times as the group shuffles around you. There’s a raggedy looking kid hanging onto the fringes of the group, in an oversized sweater that dwarfs them and makes it hard to tell where their hands are. A nagging feeling of familiarity keeps your eyes on them, though you’re absolutely certain you’ve never seen them before in your life. Something about their face… rounded, with heavy lidded eyes… they look like they’re expecting something.

The tour group moves into a larger cavern, this one with a skylight and a central hole that seems to disappear into darkness below, and the nagging feeling returns. You find the child in the small crowd again, feeling ridiculous, but knowing that you won’t get any peace of mind until you’ve gone over to talk to them. Gently shouldering your way through the tourists (murmuring apologies and half-hearted excuses that you wanted to look out over the edge), you eventually find yourself standing a mere foot away from the child.

And a foot away from the very large, very foreboding hole.

There’s tension in the air, now, and you can feel the child’s gaze flickering toward you repeatedly. You don’t like this.

For a few moments, the tour continues as normal. The guide doesn’t seem to actually be paying any attention to you or the child -- which strikes you as odd. Why isn’t there an adult immediately worrying over how close to the edge they are? Cameras flash, leaving you with temporary blind spots, and you wonder how many photos are going to now contain you, standing near the edge, your hands in your hoodie pockets and your skin standing out in stark relief against the shadows beyond you.

The group begins to move again. The child makes no sign of following. You’re _incredibly_ unnerved.

You’re about to speak up, to mention that you two should really catch up with the group, when they look up at you with a piercing, very intense gaze. It’s almost as though they’re waiting to see what you do. You really, _really_ want to go with the rest of the group, but...

“...maybe we should step back.” you murmur instead.

The child shakes their head, before pointing at you, and then pointing off after the tour group. It’s like they’re telling you to leave.

“Hey,” you tense, tangling your fingers in the slightly ratty material lining the pocket of your hoodie. “I’m not just leaving a kid behind, especially not this close to a chasm.”

They make the _you-go_ gesture again, frowning now, and step marginally closer to the hole, which _immediately_ sparks something akin to panic in your gut. Shit. Shit shit shit. Were they suicidal? Was that what was happening right now?

But they were so _young_ …

“Kid.” you inch forward, pulling your hands out of your pockets and holding them up in a placating gesture. “Listen. It’s not worth it. Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.” God, you sound like a prerecorded message, but you can’t think straight. They’re too close to the hole and you’re not liking the wary look they’re giving you now, the way they’re tracking your movement, like you’re about to attack them or something.

It’s taking most of your remaining brainpower to calculate how far you have to reach, how much forward momentum you’d need to surge forward and grab them back. If they fall, even if you scream, there’s no guarantee that a rescue team will save them in time. You almost don’t dare to turn your eyes off of them, even as you inch closer to them, still holding your hands at chest height as though approaching a wounded animal.

Their eyes widen -- you can actually see faint sparks of brown in their eyes, reflecting the minimal sunlight falling down into the cave. They make a move, as though to reach for you.

And then you feel your foot meet air. Air, conveniently, where you had thought ground would be.

Maybe it says a lot about you, that your immediate response to realizing you’re falling is _not_ to scream. Instead it is to throw the rest of your weight forward, until you can shove the child in front of you in the opposite direction. It coincidentally sends you more squarely out into the open emptiness, but hey, at least the kid’s stumbled back a few feet.

And maybe the group will return in time to make sure they don’t jump. Since, you know, you did a fabulous job of that.

That’s when you finally start screaming.

* * *

 

Everything hurts.

You’ve heard people complain about everything hurting before -- hell, you’ve _used_ that complaint before -- but never has it been so deliriously crystal clear just _what_ that implies. You’re pretty sure you can feel every one of your heartbeats through every single vein and on top of all that, all ten billion of your nerves are _screaming_ at you. At full volume. Echoing through your pounding head.

You move slowly, starting with bending your fingers and easing your way slowly up your arms, doing the same with your toes and your legs, testing to see how much you _can_. There’s something soft brushing against your skin wherever it isn’t covered by your hoodie, and it tickles at your nose until you finally rationalize that you’re not dead. Death can’t possibly be this uncomfortable.

You kind of sincerely wonder how anyone can think that jumping off of a high spot is a good way to die. The body isn't meant to go splat. Hell, it’s not even a guaranteed quick death -- as you yourself are an example.

You carefully open your eyes, squinting against the pain and the light filtering almost straight down onto your face. The tour had been at a little past eight o’clock, so if the light is falling straight down that’s… noon? You’ve been down here for four hours already, unconscious, possibly gravely injured. You’re kind of disappointed that there isn’t a rescue already.

Oh well. Maybe they all thought you had died in the fall when you didn’t respond. Because, you know, you were unconscious. Right.

There _had_ been something about people not returning from Mt. Ebott...

It takes a massive amount of effort for you to sit up, holding your head in your hands and biting down on a groan of pain. Standing is likewise laborious, but somehow you manage. You’re wobbly on your feet when you take your first few steps, and you make your way directly to a nearby wall, falling against it.

You can see into the next cavern, where another pool of light is illuminating the ground, and in the center of that pool of light is a flower that has to be about two feet tall. You step carefully into the room, feeling unaccountably nervous -- literally every trope in RPG video games is screaming at you that you’ve entered some weird mystical tutorial area, even though none of this is a video game--

 _Christ_ it has a face.

Okay, that’s it, nope. You’re not doing this. You’re in too much pain and you seemingly have a concussion and now you’re seeing things, which is seemingly making life into a magical video game RPG experience.

...You should really sit down.

“About time--” the flower _speaks_ , shattering your fragile perception that you’re in a sane state of mind. It’s got a high pitched, childlike tone of voice and it isn’t looking at you -- its pencil-drawn eyes are thin in what you think means they’re ‘closed’. “You keep going back further each time, it’s like the world is trying to tell you to stop falling down he--”

It opens its ‘eyes’ and cuts off quite suddenly upon seeing you. For a moment you think it almost looks _shocked._ Then the expression fades away into a neutral smile that still somehow sets your nerves on edge.

(Eerily enough, it reminds you of those damned creepy emoticon smiles. You’ve never liked those things.)

You bite at the inner side of your cheek to keep your own expression neutral.

“Oh, golly. Sorry, I thought you were someone else! I’m Flowey -- Flowey the Flower. You must be new down here, huh?” Its words somehow don’t diffuse the odd sense that you’ve fallen into an RPG. In fact, you’re getting heightened ‘welcome to the tutorial’ vibes. Literally no one names an actual being ‘Flowey the Flower’ without intending _that_ crap to be a red herring and a trap. You know all the tropes but you’re not suited to be an RPG hero, oh god.

“U-Uh.” you stammer, eloquently.

“Don’t be scared!” It bounces a bit from side to side, like it’s trying to put on the most innocent childlike air, except you’ve never actually known a child to so blatantly disregard ‘stranger danger’. “You must be so confused, but I can help!”

“S-Sorry, but…” you’re tempted to step back away again. “I… I don’t know.”

“Come on, could talking to little old me really hurt you?”

 _Yes._ Your gut response is usually pretty spot on about these things. You try for casual when you scan the room beyond, seeing the way forward directly past it. (It? Him? Hadn’t gotten a gender, was it really okay to keep thinking ‘it’?)

“I think I can handle myself… thanks?” You try to follow the wall, attempting to play it off as still being unsteady on your feet (you are, so it works) while also trying to strategically stay as far away from the flower as possible.

“At least let me heal you.”

You freeze. That’s… a genuinely nice offer, if it’s not a trick, and you’re _really_ hurting. If it really means to heal you, then you almost feel bad for derailing the apparent tutorial…

“You… can do that?” you ask, softly, peering at the flower in what you’re praying isn’t obvious wariness but you know it probably is anyway.

“Sure!” it beams at you, but something is still not sitting right with you. “Most everyone down here can do magic, and healing is one of the first things everyone learns.”

Everyone. Christ, you really _have_ fallen into an RPG. Maybe you’re still unconscious and slowly bleeding out in that first room, and all of this is just a wickedly lucid dying fever dream.

“Who is… everyone?” you reluctantly step forward, away from the wall, an inch or so closer to Flowey. If you’re probably dying anyway, might as well enjoy the dream. Especially since you think you can sort of shape it. You’re getting really intense gut feelings about what’s going to happen, after all.

“Well, monsters of course! Don’t the human history books still have the monster human war? We’ve been sealed down here for _ages_ . Oh, here,” it peers unnervingly intently at your chest, and you feel _something_ shift, and pull free, leaving an empty spot as--

There’s a tiny ball of glowing light in front of you, hovering before your chest, and you _immediately_ get the sense that _that is not supposed to be out_. It’s a faint bronzy red color, with streaks of brighter red scattered across its surface and sparks of brighter orange arcing off of it at times.

“That is your Soul.” you can practically _hear_ the capital letter, though it’s already worrying enough that apparently your _soul is outside of your body._ “The culmination of your very being! It’s pretty small and fragile right now, but you can definitely help it grow stronger.”

You realize somewhere along the line that you somehow _still_ stumbled into the tutorial. Fuck.

“All you’ve gotta do,” Flowey continues, unaware of your emotional turmoil, “is get some LV -- some LOVE! We monsters share LOVE down here through little white… friendliness pellets.”

 _You noticed that pause, Oh Christ, this is_ **_so_** _a trap._

All at once, the air is full with glimmering sparks of white light that have the same ethereal glow that is seeping from your own soul. You _do not_ trust this, not one bit, and so you lurch away from the first couple that get too close for comfort. The little light stays a constant distance from your chest, moving with you, pulsing faintly with your heartbeat, a quick little thrum that evidences your nerves.

Flowey’s ‘face’ has gone tight. “Hey, easy. You've just gotta move around and catch a few, it'll help you feel stronger!”

“You know on second thought--” You speak quickly, trying for jovial even as you raise your hands almost reflexively around the softly pulsing bronzish light of your soul, trying to offer some menial protection. It’s giving off a faint warmth, like a tiny star, and you’re bolstered in your desire to shield it -- something so small and precious should _not_ be out on display like this. “I think I’m just gonna, y’know, pass on the whole healing thing-- thank you for the offer, but uh… if you could just, you know--” you vaguely move your hands back toward your chest, careful not to actually touch your soul -- you’re not sure what that would do, honestly -- before carefully cradling them around it again, “let my soul go back into me, or something. That’d be great. That’d be _really, really_ great.”

The tight expression grows even more tight, a rictus smile that sends shivers down your spine.

“You seem to misunderstand,” Flowey chimes, though the expression makes the entire statement into a threat rather than a chide. “This is not an optional encounter.”

“Y-Yeah, I get it, tutorial fight and all that, but _seriously_ , I think I’d rather pass, go directly to jail, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars--”

The air is suddenly full of the little white glows, and you can practically feel the electricity in the air, crackling around you. A quick glance over your shoulder reveals that they’re behind you as well, cutting off your escape. You attempt to curl closer to the little glowing heart in between your hands, your heart hammering out an erratic, panicked beat, the little light matching its pulse with an equally erratic dance of sparks and light.

“In this world,” Flowey is dancing from side to side again, a downright cruel smile splitting its oddly liquidy face, “It’s _**k i l l o r b e k i l l e d.**_ ”

You’re certain you’re not imagining the utter change in its voice as the glowing white… oh, screw it. _Bullets_. They’re bullets, and they’re closing in on you.

“You’re _insane._ ” you wheeze, outright panic laced on your words, right before a literal fireball comes out of the door beyond Flowey and nails the flower at an angle, sending it skidding face first into the dirt a bit to your right. You jump to the left in response even as the white ‘friendliness pellets’ blink out of existence, leaving you struggling to breathe steadily and with your hands falling against your heaving chest, following the descent of your soul back into its rightful place.

“Oh, dear.” a new voice comes, right as your knees give out. “Such a terrible creature, terrorizing an innocent. Young one, are you alright?”


	2. Post Tutorial Stress Disorder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is everyone ready for really bad and stupid jokes on a bi-weekly basis? No? Good, because this author has a shit sense of humor. 
> 
> Chapters should theoretically go up Tuesdays and Fridays. I'll aim for around noon GMT -7, BUT no guarantees on that one.

A hand lands on your shoulder and you nearly fall over in your effort to pull back, still lost somewhere in the panic. Your heart's still pounding against your ribs, though the odd emptiness that you felt is gone. You suppose it's because your soul is back in your body. 

When you look up, you see what you can only describe as a  _ goat woman _ . She’s standing on two legs, dressed in a heavy robe of a dress, and there’s clear and honest concern shining from her strangely non-goatlike eyes.

“Young one…” she has pulled her hand back, a couple of inches. “You seem… distressed?”

_ I wonder why _ . Your thoughts are immediately sarcastic.  _ I just fell however many feet trying to save some suicidal kid, almost died, and  _ **_then_ ** _ almost got killed to death anyway, and  _ **_now_ ** _ there’s an anthropomorphic goat woman talking to me.  _ **_No reason to be distressed whatsoever._ **

You, of course, have  _ some _ self control and do not immediately spout out your irrational, shitty thoughts.

“S-Sorry,” you mumble back, “I’ve just…I think I’ve almost died twice in the span of four hours. I’m a little jumpy.” Your hand is still pressed against your breastbone, over the spot where your soul disappeared, and you can feel how your fingers are trembling.

Her hand is still hovering, vaguely in your bubble, as though she still wants to reach forward to steady you but is hesitating due to your reaction. “You certainly look as though you’ve been through an ordeal.” she murmurs, the genuine distress on her face slowly chipping away at your wary distrust, though you’re clinging to it with everything you’ve got, like a bulldog. Sorry, lady, but you’re not letting your guard down again so soon after  _ that _ .

“Can you stand?” she asks, instead, “Would you like me to help you? I can respect if you would rather not, in such a case, but… I still have to offer. I am Toriel, by the way. Caretaker of this place.”

You’re not proud of the dark thing that recoils inside you, snarling almost ferally at the _potential_ _threat_. You force yourself to take a breath, and reason with yourself that you will compromise. If you can’t stand on your own, then you’ll have to suspend your disbelief and reluctantly trust her. You _can’t_ stay here. You don’t want to even think about what might happen if you’re still here when that little demon of a flower wakes up again.

A part of you is envisioning the tutorial restarting, and it makes you want to shudder.

“L-Let me try.” You force your voice to be even, not defensive or any other sort. Neutral, even if unsteady. You press your hands against the ground, grimacing at the ache that shoots up your arms even as your legs start to protest as you get them under yourself again.

You get halfway up, and then the vertigo hits. You’re  _ really _ in a bad way, right now.

Her hand on your arm is expected and only mildly unpleasant. You bite your tongue as she helps you stand, and slowly, the dizziness fades. Your breathing is a bit unsteady anyway. “I  _ really _ need a place to lie down…”

She looks like she’s hesitating, but before you can react, her hand is glowing a faint green against your arm, and you can feel the faint buzzing static feel of what you’re coming to realize has to be legitimate magic through the wash-softened material of your hoodie, against your skin, and--

Your head clears, and your steps steady themselves, and you can breathe a bit easier. The faint warmth that you can feel spreading through your limbs and strengthening them centralizes on that spot you now know holds your soul, and you can feel it  _ thrumming _ through you, an undercurrent of energy that soothes everywhere it touches. 

You pull your arm away almost on reflex, mostly in response to recognizing that another-- what had Flowey called them all? Monsters? God you’ve got a serious moral ambiguity about that word but if they call  _ themselves  _ that… -- monster was using magic against you without your consent.

“Whaaat was that.” You ask, blinking at her plaintively.

“I healed you.” she smiles sheepishly. (Ha, sheep. ‘Cause she’s a goat.)

“You… what?”

“Healed you. You were quite injured, even though I didn’t see you get hit. I apologize for not asking your permission, but… I admittedly overheard a bit of your conversation with that rather unpleasant flower. I… thought you might take the offer badly. Rest assured that I will not use magic against you without prior warning again.”

She brushes her hand against your shoulder briefly, in what you’re sure is supposed to be a reassuring pat. You’re glad that she keeps it brief.

“If you would like, I can lead you through the Ruins to my home, young one.” She folds her hands in front of herself, “You can stay as long as it takes you to recover fully and feel well.”

You pat yourself down, briefly, and find no immediate fatal wounds. It seems she was true to her words about healing you, and she even acknowledged your reasons to be upset, and apologized. She’s already a bit ahead of that  _ weed _ in your books.

You suppose you can afford to give her a chance.

“...lead the way.” You offer her a small, hesitant smile, and she beams back at you, genuine happiness sparkling in her eyes. Her hands are still respectfully folded in front of her, kept away from your area, and she starts stepping along, seemingly accepting your words as a tacit agreement to follow her.

“So,” you mutter, not quite sure how to bring this up but needing to be sure. “Monsters?”

“Oh, yes. The Underground is full of monsters, we’ve all come to grow very accustomed to our life down here.”

“...but why stay down here?” You blink.

“Well, the Barrier keeps us trapped beneath its glow.” she looks oddly solemn. “Ages ago, when our race went at war with your own, and the monsters lost... seven human sorcerers cast the spell that placed the Barrier in place. We could pass through to go down. But to leave…”

“...please tell me it won’t block a human.” Your voice is small.

“It blocks  _ all _ from leaving, monster or human in the soul. We’ve found that one with both souls can pass through… and as seven human souls cast it, seven human souls would break it.”

“So I’m--” you’re floundering again, choking on the word.

“Yes.” she sighs, even as she pulls a lever to a large door. “Unfortunately, young one, you are also trapped down here with us. And…”

The door opens, but she makes no move to pass through it, so you pause, looking at her.

“I should…” she sighs, “I should warn you, young one. Here in the Ruins, you will face very few active threats. Those that do pose temporary threats can be easily talked down. But if you leave the Ruins, you will likely be hunted. He…  _ Asgore _ … he has six souls already. If you attempt to leave, you will almost certainly become the seventh.” She glances over at you, her eyes shadowed. “He intends to break the Barrier and return monsterkind to the surface. No matter the cost.”

A shiver goes down your spine. You pull your hood up over top of your head, and shove your hands in the front pocket of your hoodie, hunching down and walking past her through the door.

She follows you, and you continue your trek through the foreboding, darkly purple stone hallways in relative silence. She only breaks the fugue that’s befallen both of you to explain about the puzzles in the Ruins, and does not pressure you to break your own intense thought with conversation.

_ Your  _ melancholy is only interrupted by the sensation of something very small and moving very fast barrelling right into the hood of your hoodie, ducking under your ear and knocking the the hood right off. A small weight settles into it, tugging down on your shoulders, and disoriented groaning interspersed with distinctly hiccupy avian chirps echoes from it.

“Ellie!” Toriel exclaims, apparently toward the small weight.

She’s met with a soft groan in response.

“Oh dear…” Toriel sighs, hesitantly stepping toward you, but you’re already reaching over your shoulder to gently scoop the small weight (which turns out to be a small brown bird, though you’re willing to bet that it’s a bird  _ monster _ considering it’s groaning like a human and Toriel knows its… her? Name.) into your hands. “Ellie,” she continues, “have you been flying into the walls again?”

“Can’t help it.” the little bird slurs, with her face covered by her wings, “Not enough room in here to fly as fast as I wanna.”

You're not any kind of bird expert, but you know enough to be gentle with any creature this disoriented, so your hands are slow and light fingered when you shift the bird into one palm and start carefully brushing some of her feathers back into place. She groans one more time as you gently pluck bits of your hoodie fuzz out of her claws. 

“Perhaps you ought to relax for awhile, at least until you can pass back out of the Ruins.” There's a faint note of disapproval in Toriel’s tone, “I do hope you haven't made a mess of things back at my home.”

You note that the path into and out of these “ruins” seemingly has to pass through Toriel’s home, based on that comment. You really can't avoid going with her if that's the case. 

It's funny. You were tentatively coming to like Toriel and probably wouldn't have minded staying with her until a rescue party came down to get you, but learning about the Barrier and knowing that you were trapped… quite suddenly, you had a surge of  _ needing _ to leave. The ceilings are too high and shadowy, the hallways seeming incredibly narrow, and you've never been good with feeling  _ enclosed _ in a tight spot. 

Ellie chirps out a soft trill, ruffling her feathers against your fingers, and then she drops her wings, looking up at you with quiet confusion. 

“... You're not Toriel.” She softly states. 

“Ellie,” Toriel smiles from a bit to your right, “This human just fell. They'll be staying with me as well for a few days.”

Probably not, but you keep your mouth shut on that matter.

“...huh.” Ellie blinks again, “Never seen a human before.”

“I’ve never seen monsters before today, so we’re even.” You quirk one side of your mouth up at the little bird, smiling tentatively, “You can ride on my shoulder if you want. We'll go slow, it'll give you time to reorient.”

You've never had a pet bird and you don't know the first thing about helping take care of one, but this one is human enough that you have to remind yourself she wouldn't be a pet anyway. Maybe a friendly soul, though, if you offer first. 

She blinks up at you, slowly, before rolling in your hands and carefully standing herself up. You lift her toward your shoulder, and let her test the grip afforded by the fabric of your hoodie, before she almost daintily settles herself in the dip between your collar bones and your neck. You're pretty sure you could still flip your hood up and she'd be safely ensconced in the fabric as well. 

“Thank you.” She chirps quietly into your ear. 

“Don't mention it.” You murmur back. “Just let me know if I move too fast or if you get uncomfortable, and we'll figure something else out.”

“I'm used to fast.” She lets out a soft chittering clicking noise that you think might be laughter. “I'm a kestrel, after all. We have to dive pretty fast to catch our prey unawares.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” You smile, “Stipulations stand though. I don't know much about helping or taking care of birds, you'll have to talk to me if you expect me to get anything you're trying to tell me.”

“Deal.” She bobs her head in a facsimile of a nod, and you relax, continuing forward after Toriel through the first several rooms in the Ruins. You make note that the tiling on the floor is often an indicator or clue to each puzzle at hand, and that these puzzles are fond of giving the same placement of key objects in the room from different perspectives.

There are also red leaves everywhere, piled up in fluffy, crinkling beds, and a part of you feels like a kid again, itching to run and jump into one of the big piles. 

Less pleasantly but also everywhere are tiny golden flowers, too similar to Flowey for your tastes. They're poking through cracks in the walls and the tiles beneath your feet. You briefly wonder if they're all connected to the same root system as the bed of yellow flowers you landed on when you fell.

You reach a long hallway of a room, and Toriel pauses, before turning toward you. “I must go on ahead. I will meet you at the end of the room.”

You watch her walk quickly down the hallway and wonder if there's some sort of trapping system that she's trying to disable before you follow, but shrug your shoulders slightly and start walking after her anyway. Ellie has fluffed up her feathers against your neck. You think she's nervous. 

You're not, oddly enough. It's probably the first time you've felt genuinely calm since you fell down here. Maybe it's just because you're several rooms away from Flowey now and so far even though several small monsters have approached you curiously (and a few even gave testing tugs on your soul, but were quickly dissuaded when you held up your hands and politely asked them not to), no one has actually tried to hurt you in a while.

You're not entirely  _ relaxed _ , but you're calm. You can almost pretend you're just in a big old castle and can leave at any time.

You resolve to ask Toriel how old this place is, and about how she came to be its caretaker. You're not exactly a fanatic about history but it  _ does _ interest you.

Ellie goes tense on your shoulder as you reach roughly the halfway point in the room, and you glance out of the corner of your eye to see her head turned to look behind you. You cast your own glance over your shoulder and just barely get to see the yellow petals of an extremely large flower disappearing back through a large crack in the tiles, about twenty feet behind you. 

You're no longer calm.

* * *

 

You reach the end of the room with no further incident, thankfully, but the damage is done. Even listening to Toriel’s explanation that she needed to make sure you could handle yourself falls a bit flat, because the truth is you are incredibly out of your depth while down here. (Your mind offers one humorless  _ ha _ when you recognize the inadvertent pun.)

When she leaves you behind again, giving you her cell phone number (your battered old tank of a Nokia isn't even scratched from the fall, for which you're grateful), you immediately reset your speed dial to have her as the first option. None of your other contacts are available and you have no outside signal when you try to call the emergency line (a thought you should have had a while before, but in your defense, you were kind of thrust into a hysterical situation in which you almost  _ died _ \-- twice!).

You can't stay here, now that you know that Flowey is awake and even capable of following you. Ellie makes no effort to stop you when you start into the next rooms, stubbornly determined to keep moving. You get the feeling that she was equally perturbed by Flowey, even in that swift look she got of him. 

More monsters approach you, but you've more or less suspended your disbelief for the time being. A few become more aggressive and actually manage to pull your soul free but you do your best to talk them down, dodging every potential attack on much more steady feet now that you're not as injured. 

Who knew that all the practice ducking and weaving through the back room of a busy retail environment on a day to day basis would come in handy?

Toriel calls a couple of times as you progress, asking odd questions about your preferences between cinnamon and butterscotch. You tell her you have no preference -- both are equally really good in sweets in your books.

You take more than your fair share of falls through weak flooring, but always land in one of the big piles of leaves down below, and slowly but doggedly progress through the too-drafty hallways and rooms. By the end of the Ruins you’re pretty scraped up again but you feel strangely accomplished when you finally reach a balcony that looks out over a vast and intricate clustering of buildings.

You realize that perhaps the Ruins themselves are much larger than you’ve encountered. There  _ were _ quite a few corridors and areas that were blocked off. And somehow, standing at the balcony and leaning on the railing, you finally feel like you can finally get almost a full breath again.

You linger there for a few minutes, just breathing, soaking in the openness. Ellie is also quiet and indulgent, ruffling her feathers.

“You gonna fly off?” you ask her, “It’s pretty open up here.”

“Hm.” she fluffs up a bit, clicking her beak a couple of times. “It’s tempting, don’t get me wrong.”

“I won’t feel any worse if you do. Though your advice has been really helpful.”

Ellie is practically preening, she looks so pleased by your compliment. Through the various encounters that you’ve gotten into, between your kind of erratic dodging, Ellie had been hovering and calling out observations and suggestions based on the things she knew about the monsters you were in the encounter with. On more than one occasion, it was one of her suggestions that actually helped calm the monster in question down.

“You’ve been doing pretty okay yourself,” she mentions, making no move to take off. “But I bet you won’t stand a chance without my help in the long run.”

You laugh, recognizing the tease for what it is, friendly and not intended to hurt. It’s odd how easily you’ve relaxed around Ellie, but she has been your first ‘companion’ character, you suppose, in terms of RPG tropes. Plus, she  _ has _ been genuinely helpful. And you suppose that after the fifth time falling through a hole and watching her hover down to you again, you’ve grown a little fond of how readily she settles on your shoulder.

“Probably not.” you shrug with the shoulder she isn’t perched on, though you’re sure she can feel it. “Like I said, it’s your choice. I won’t mind if you want to leave, but I do appreciate your presence. It’s nice, having an extra set of eyes around. Not to mention someone to talk to.”

She hunkers down into your shoulder, her head feathers fluffing up. You’re not sure, but you think that’s a happy thing in bird language. 

“I think I’ll stick with you, at least for a while.” she chirrups a few times, a trilling sound that almost sounds musical. “Now come on, we’re almost to Toriel’s house, and I bet she’s making pie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for anyone who got a double email. Accidentally posted before it was ready.


	3. You Didn't NEED Another Mother, But Okay, Goatmom It Is

You stop by a little corner filled with cobwebs, mostly out of curiosity, and kneel down to inspect a sign propped next to it.  _ Spider Bakesale,  _ huh? All proceeds go to real spiders… Made for spiders, by spiders, of spiders?

Eh, what the heck, you've always been vaguely adventurous when it comes to food. You'll try anything once. Sometimes twice if you've had a bit of time to adjust. You still remember the first time you had fried crickets, and you're pretty sure it's normal for spiders to eat each other anyway, so you can't judge. 

You look at your options, a spider doughnut and a spider cider. The cider is more expensive, costing over double the doughnut. You count your meager collection of little glinting gold bits, coming up with just over enough for one of each. 

You deposit seven of them in the first web and eighteen in the other, watching the little spiders scurry down to collect them, and several more scurrying down with your bought products. The doughnut is glazed with proper purple icing and everything, and the cider bottle is about the size of a canteen, to your immense surprise. You reach forward to grab it when it starts slipping out of the spiders’ grip, smiling hesitantly as they give little high pitched but grateful  _ thank you come again _ squeaks. 

Just to be nice, you drop your last few bits of gold into the space between the webs. It's only 3G, but it's customary for you to leave a tip, and you figure they can probably make more use of it than you can.

You take a small nibble and sip as you leave, just for taste, and find them good. You'll save those for later. Maybe much later if you can find a bag to carry things in. You never know when you could use a snack. 

For now, you follow your nose to find Toriel’s home, since you're sure you can smell something equally delicious baking in the air.

Toriel opens the door to her home and steps out right as you're stepping around the tree in her front ‘yard’, and you get to see her soft pause of surprise.

“Oh, child.” she smiles, a warm and slightly chiding tone in her voice. “I was just about to come get you again. You two didn't have to…”

“It was no trouble, Toriel.” Ellie insists for you. 

“Yeah,” you say, even though you're pretty curious how anyone could stand to live in a place with so many traps everywhere. Maybe monsters are weird like that. At least the puzzles are pretty interesting. “No trouble at all.”

“Well, in that case, come in. The pie just came out of the oven.”

“Called it,” Ellie whispers, prompting a very unattractive snort from your end.

Toriel’s home is inviting and brightly lit, with more of those damned yellow flowers everywhere. You wonder if maybe they're the only flowers that grow down here and feel a sense of dread. She leads you through a sitting room area and into the kitchen, already cutting you a piece of a crisp, golden brown pie when you sit down at the table.

“You made it difficult,” she teases, “It's been awhile since I last made cinnamon butterscotch pie. But with no preference…”

You get the distinct feeling she would have made cinnamon butterscotch pie no matter what you said your preference was. It's unnerving, how often these little trope-based instincts are popping up.

“I've never had cinnamon butterscotch pie,” you say, trying to chase away the feeling, “so I'm sure it will be worth it.”

The first piece melts in your mouth and curiously fills you with more of the pure warmth that flooded you when Toriel healed your wounds. Seems that monster food has healing magic in it, for some reason. 

Well, that might come in handy, if what she said about you winding up hunted was true.

After you and Ellie have both had your fill of pie, Toriel insists upon walking you around the small house and giving you a tour, one which ends at what she calls ‘the room you’ll be staying in’. She excuses herself after that, stating that she’ll be in the sitting room and will let you settle in, and you hum to yourself as you step into ‘your room’.

What immediately strikes you is that  _ this _ …

This is a child’s room. A  _ small  _ child’s room.

There are stuffed animals lining the bed along the wall its pressed against, and the bed itself has a colorful quilt stretched across it and a pillow that looks like it could swallow you whole, it’s so fluffed up. There’s a chest of dusty toys pushed against the footboard of the bed, and a crayon drawing of another one of those yellow flowers pinned to the wall in the corner. When you take a moment to peer into the wardrobe, you see small green and yellow striped sweaters hanging in a neat row along the top, neatly folded pants stacked to one side, a few lumpy bundles of socks and underwear that have visible layers of dust on them, and a tattered old knapsack pressed to the back next to two tiny pairs of dusty boots.

You reach in and grab the knapsack, careful not to touch anything else, feeling like you’re intruding. Like this wasn’t something meant for your eyes. The sense that this -- all of this -- was  _ not meant for  _ **_you_ ** is almost suffocating, and you can feel your nerves tightening into a small ball, ready to explode.

You put the knapsack on the bed, looking inside to find several small plastic containers, as if whoever left it there forgot that they had stored food in their bag. They’re all curiously, meticulously clean. You refuse to question it, opening one and storing your spider doughnut in it, before pushing the canteen of spider cider into an open spot.

You can’t question this. You can’t stay here.

Ellie is hovering in the doorway, watching your almost feverish attempts to pack and peering in clear concern toward your furrowed brows, your pinched expression. She doesn’t seem ready to ask if you’re okay, because clearly you’re  _ not _ , but there’s not a lot she can do about it.

You swing the knapsack over your shoulders, putting your face in your hands for a few seconds and breathing unsteadily and trying (and failing) to let some of the tension out of your system. This is a child’s room in Toriel’s home, but it looks… and feels… empty. Like it’s been empty for a long time. Toriel has done nothing but mother you since she saw you, hovering close and overprotective and you  _ know _ , you  _ know _ it’s not a question you can ask, it’s not something you can bring up. Asking is delving deeper into backstory land and you don't _want to_ because  _ for god's sake you are not an RPG heroine. _

“What’s the way out?” You ask Ellie, lifting your face out of your hands and hyper aware of your faint voice and your shaking breaths. “I can’t stay here.”

“Down the stairs.” Ellie’s voice is quiet, and she flutters over to settle on your shoulder, leaning her head over to press it against your cheek in a way that you think is meant to be reassuring. You pull in one more unsteady breath and step back out into the hallway, striding into the main room again and making a beeline for the stairs that lead downward.

You can hear Toriel’s noises of obvious distress behind you, and speed your steps, letting gravity pull you down further, faster. You’ve always had to be light on your feet and right now you can’t afford to let her stop you, because if she catches you, then…

Then you’ll have to confront the issue, because  _ goddamnit _ this is real life and she’s a real person and you can never let it go when you  _ know _ something is wrong with someone else.

She catches you by the arm as you reach the bottom of the stairs, but her efforts to pull you back only end in both of you digging your feet into the stone ground. You refuse to look around at her, hyper aware of your own trembling.

“Young one, what are you doing? There’s nothing down here--”

“Sure there isn’t.” you interrupt, ducking your head, “Nothing but the way out.”

“You’ll be  _ killed _ .”

“I can’t stay, Toriel.” It’s the first time you’ve used her name, and a part of your heart  _ aches _ because she’s  _ so real,  _ she’s right behind you and there’s  _ pain _ back that way that isn’t yours and  _ that _ is what  _ kills you _ .

“Why  _ not _ ?” there’s an abject plea in her voice, even as her hand tightens on your arm. You almost think you can feel her hand heating up, but you still refuse to look around, your eyes screwed tightly shut, “Why do you insist that you have to leave? Why can you not stay, and be safe--”

“I  _ could _ .” your voice cracks, “And that’s what scares me.”

Her hand twitches against your arm.

“I  _ could _ be safe, I  _ could _ stay here, I  _ could _ let you mother me, but I--” your head ducks down further, and you manage to wrench your arm from her grip. “I would  _ know _ , Toriel. I would know you’ve gone through this, I don’t even know how many times before, and I would know that  _ eventually I would have to do the same. _ ”

Ellie takes off from your shoulder, and you can feel the displacement of the air as she hovers behind you, between you and Toriel. You’re shaking like a leaf, even as you continue.

“I can’t stay forever. And I can’t… I can’t get your hopes up. Not when I know it’d only end up hurting you, I  _ don’t _ want to hurt you, I don’t want to hurt  _ anyone _ , I just…” you wrap your arms around yourself, “I can’t stay. I must… not… stay.”

You don’t look around. You don’t get to see Toriel’s face crumple, don’t get to witness for yourself the way she breaks all over again, only to pull herself together with purpose. Ellie will tell you about it later, when you have a few quiet moments, but you yourself will never be able to say you saw what your words did to her.

All you know is that suddenly she’s brushing past you, striding down the hallway toward the exit of the Ruins, and Ellie is winging after her with quick sweeps of her wings, chirping in alarm. You hurry to catch up, and the three of you all come to a stop around a turn and before a door.

Toriel’s hands are alight, and her shoulders are squared.

“Toriel, please don’t do this,” Ellie is pleading. You do the only thing you can think of.

You swing around her again, imposing yourself in front of the door, right as she pulls her hands back. You see the way she visibly flinches, even as you feel your soul pull free into a fight you never wanted.

You rotate around her again, back into the rest of the hallway, watching as she reluctantly turns with you. The encounter has begun, and now she very well can’t stop facing you.

“You wish to prove that you can handle yourself out there?” she asks, her voice oddly detached. You recognize the tone -- it’s one you’ve used. The one to protect yourself from hurt even as you’re nothing but broken pieces.

“Even if I can’t, I have to try.” you say, rolling your weight onto the balls of your feet. 

Her first few attacks graze you, washing heat across your skin even as you roll to the side, coming up on your feet again, balancing yourself on your fingertips. You keep barely within the bounds allotted by standard encounters, keeping your breathing even, even as adrenaline floods your system and her attacks get closer to hitting each time.

“Fight me!” she demands, throwing another fireball that splits against the wall behind where your head was an instant before. 

“I won’t.” you dodge another few fireballs, gritting your teeth, “I told you I don’t want to hurt anyone, Toriel. That includes you.”

“If you didn’t want to hurt anyone then you would  _ stay _ \--”

You hurl your weight forward, hoping to latch onto the faintest opening you can see. She has a delay after each fireball -- it’s small, but it’s there. You have to show her somehow that you don’t want to hurt her, you need a chance to explain that you’ve  _ been through _ painful goodbyes, and you know that they only hurt more when you think they aren’t coming. If you don’t leave now, you’d only be delaying the inevitable. You’d only be letting her hopes get higher, and it would only hurt more when they crashed.

A fireball lights up two feet from your face, and you react on pure instinct, throwing yourself to the floor to let it pass over your head, then rolling to the side and back as two more follow it. The faint opening you thought you saw is gone.

You’re back to gritting out words in between breaths, sweat dripping off of your brow into your eyes.

“Then I’d only be hurting you in the long run!”

“I can’t let you kill yourself, I can’t let it happen again! I’ve lost too many children already, I can’t--”

You finally see another opening, and surge forward right after she’s thrown a fireball, throwing your arms around her midsection and pulling her against you, gently pressing her face into your shoulder. She freezes, then shudders, and her arms fall limp at her sides, the flames dying out. You can feel the tears as they start to shudder their way out of her, and keep your hold firm, but painless.

“I hate to break this to you,” you murmur, “But I’ve not been a child for a long, long while.”

She lets out a humorless laugh that turns into a sob halfway through, wrapping her arms around you as well, “When you’re as old as I am, everyone is a child.”

“Now  _ that’s _ an opening I’m going to very politely decline.” You joke, “One never asks a lady about her age.”

She laughs against you, and you feel her weight sag as the encounter ends -- your soul has descended back into its spot, the empty feeling is gone again -- and all of the adrenaline slowly drains from your system again, until she’s not the only one pulling you both down. You remain hugging each other, even kneeling on the floor before the doorway.

“Must you really go?” her tone is pained, wistful, as she pulls away to look you in the eyes.

“If I could be rescued by staying with you, and could bring everyone up with me?” you gesture back the way you came, “I would in a heartbeat. But I can’t. Staying here… it’d only drive me bonkers, in the long run.” You try for jocular, but it falls a bit flat. Your heartbeat is still a bit elevated -- it has been since the moment that you last saw Flowey.

“...” she ducks her head, her forehead bumping against your shoulder again and a horn pressing gently against your neck. “If you leave… I have to ask you not to come back. I can’t go through this again.”

“I know.” you hug her again. “I’ll stay safe. Ellie’ll protect me.”

Ellie, from her hover up above, gives a tiny flustered squawk of indignant confusion at the sudden responsibility, and you laugh, joined by Toriel a few seconds later. Her protests that she  _ barely weighs four ounces, how is she supposed to protect you _ only make you both laugh harder. At least, until she swoops down to smack you with every wingbeat, loudly decrying your friendship. 

Once you and Toriel finally stop laughing, and you manage to gently swing your arms and make her retreat, Ellie lands on top of your head with a huff, ruffling her feathers in apparent aggravation. “ _ Fine _ . If you’re going to make fun of me, then maybe I  _ will _ . Just to prove you  _ wrong _ . I’ll protect you  _ so well _ , all the other monsters’ll be afraid of me and by the time you get to King Asgore, even  _ he’ll _ surrender.”

“I was being genuine, Ellie Bean,” you tease, reaching up to gently run your fingers along the feathers of her wing. “You’ve been doing more than your fair share already.”

She huffs, “Yeah well, I’m not the one who has to do all the dodging. You’ll have to keep yourself alive in that respect.”

“Naturally.” you drawl, carefully standing up and keeping her balanced on your head, though she hops down onto your shoulder again. You pull Toriel up with you, hugging her one more time before pulling back. Her hands linger on your arms, before heavily dropping away, and she folds them in front of herself again, ducking her head.

She’s a few feet away when you speak up again. “Hey.”

You’re gratified to see her pause.

“I’ll text you. I’m going to go to Asgore and argue my case.” you insist, “I… hope to see you again. For tea if nothing else. Bring pie.”

She ducks her head with one last, rueful chuckle, “Only if you stay alive through doing so.”

You shrug, “Eh, I doubt it’ll be  _ too _ hard. Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Besides, I don’t  _ want _ to die.”

She doesn’t turn around, but you see her straighten. “I’ll… look forward to that day, then. Stay safe, young one.” She continues walking, and you’re left to push the door open. Another long hallway allows you to calm your heartbeat down to nearly normal again.

That is, until you see Flowey, bobbing in the center of the room at the end of the hallway, with a mild sneer already on his face. You go tense, and Ellie’s feathers flare out, and you shove your hands in your hoodie pocket to hide how badly they’re starting to shake.

“You must think you’re so clever,” he taunts, “Getting past her without hurting her. So you spared one monster. Big whup.”

“She’s done more than spare just one monster,” Ellie mutters darkly, glaring at the weed in front of you in a way that reminds you she’s very much a bird of prey. “Not that it would ever matter to you.”

“Still doesn’t matter,” Flowey is bouncing again, like a giddy, childlike dance. “Eventually you’re going to come up against a fight you can’t spare or run from. Eventually you’ll face someone you can’t talk down. What’ll you do then? Kill, or be killed?”

“You have...” you say, forcing your voice to remain even despite the quickstep tango your heart is dancing against your ribs right now, “a very twisted view of the world. This isn’t a game. You’re talking about  _ real _ lives, do you realize that? And I am  _ never _ going to have the right to take one, no matter the circumstances.”

“Guess you’ll just be an easy soul, then,” he cackles, a grating, terrifying sound, before pulling straight into the ground as Ellie lets out a hunting cry and launches from your shoulder toward where he was. Her talons scrape the earth as the last bit of dirt shifts back into place. She wings around, huffing in clear distress as she lands on her perch on your shoulder again.

You let out a breath you weren’t aware you were holding, and shake your head, moving toward the door. If there’s one thing you can do, it’s keep moving forward, no matter how much your feet feel leaden with terror. You can’t stay here, you can’t go back, you  _ have _ to keep going.

**You just hope that _forward_ is a good enough direction. **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not even ashamed to admit I'm rushing the Ruins to get to Snowdin #sorrynotsorry
> 
> Honestly if I gave each area the same amount of attention and effort we'd be fifteen chapters in and still in the Ruins??? so
> 
> Our favorite skel makes his first appearance next chapter.


	4. A Less Than Sans-sational First Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> that moment when i look through my doc and realize that ive been writing sans with proper capitalization the entire time and then i f u c k i n g cry
> 
> whoops oh well ill fix that in post lmfao (shoot me)

You have to press your entire weight against the door before it will open, and even when it starts moving it's quickly slowed by a pile of slush that's gathered at the bottom. The scraping of stone against ice sets your teeth gritting. Once it's open, you let out a sigh of relief and lean against it for a few seconds, before the cold hits you like a snowball to the face.

Literally, the wind kicks up and you get a face full of snow. It's terrible.

Your sweatshirt is perfect for late fall, early winter weather up on the surface, but you are anything but built for snow, and the sweatshirt does absolutely nothing to help matters. You nonetheless pull your hood up over your head to try and protect your ears, making sure Ellie is nicely tucked in under the cover of the hood, and shiver quietly as you walk, your hands shoved into your hoodie pocket.

"I got caught in a blizzard out here, once." Ellie is hunched down close to your head and neck again, her feathers flattened against her in a way that you think is meant to help keep her warm. "Snowdin Woods. It gets a lot of sudden snowstorms out here, I had to duck into the Ruins to avoid it. It was how I met Toriel." 

You don't answer, almost certain that if you do your teeth are going to start chattering. Instead, you nod, leaning your head over to gently bump your cheek against her in acknowledgement.

You carefully step over a large branch lying across the pathway, your feet sinking through several inches of snow on each step (you're very glad you picked your heavy hiking boots for today, since your feet, at least, are nice and toasty). About three feet beyond the branch, you start to feel the hairs on the back of your neck standing up. Some _thing_ or some _one_ is watching you, and it isn't Ellie, since you can hear her softly singing something quiet and bouncy right next to your ear, and from the sound of her voice, she's facing forward just the same as you are.

It's gone almost as soon as you register it, but it's still utterly silent except for the wind and Ellie's soft crooning. You're more than a little bit afraid (you've been scared since you fell, to be honest), and you keep flashing back to what Toriel said about you getting hunted if you left the Ruins. Was it already happening?

You're ten feet beyond the branch when there's a loud _cra-crack!_ from behind you, and you spin on your heels, sending slush flying in your nerves. Ellie goes silent, turning her head in sharp little motions, and you think she's listening, but you can't hear anything other than your own suddenly hammering heartbeat. There, laying across the pathway, is the large branch you had so carefully stepped over. It's in thirds.

You can't help the small, nervous whine that vibrates your vocal chords. Ellie tightens her grip on your shoulder, little prickles of her claws against your skin underneath your hoodie. You can barely see her out of the corner of your eye, while you're scanning the path behind you, and her eyes have gone steely with purpose.

After a few excruciatingly long seconds you finally force yourself to turn around again, fighting the urge to squeeze your eyes shut and run blindly. You square your shoulders, more to emulate bravery than out of any actual bravery on your part. You've always heard of 'fake it till you make it', but you've always been a nervous ninny in uncertain situations. You can fake being brave all you want, it still never gets any easier.

With a slow breath, you continue forward, tangling your fingers together across your stomach within their safe confines in your hoodie pocket. You lock your gaze on a bridge in the distance, one with some sort of gate set up across it. You can do anything when you have a goal in mind; especially when you feel like there's a voice telling you you _can't_. And _boy_ is there a voice in your head whispering doubts, right now.

You're about ten steps further when you realize that the sounds of your feet in the snow is oddly louder than it was before. The sense of being watched is back again, and you're almost _certain_ that there's someone behind you. You turn in place again, without warning, but the pathway behind you is empty... the snow is all kicked up, but you can't tell if it's just because you just passed through it or not.

You're pretty sure your heart is going to jackhammer out of your chest at this point. You close your eyes tightly, ducking your head a bit and going entirely still, straining your ears and pushing your extrasensory senses outward. _Come on,_ you think, _where is it, if I can just pinpoint where it's coming from, if I can just get a glance of what it is, I can't... I can't stand feeling like this, like a mouse being chased by a cat..._

You let out a faint growl in emotionally exhausted nerves when the sense of being watched disappears _again_ , though you're absolutely certain that whoever was watching you is still there. You shove a hand through your hair and turn to the bridge again, reasoning that you're _not_ going to be a sitting duck, standing still out in the snow.

The sound of footsteps matching your own reappears, but you grit your teeth and power forward, your shivering increasing -- whether from cold or from the growing scream bubbling in your gut, you're not sure.

You stop in front of the bridge, pulling your hands free from your sides to curl them into fists, curled close to yourself, your breathing growing unsteady again as the footsteps behind you continue forward, getting closer -- closer -- _closer_ \--

"H u m a n." A shiver of pure dread goes down your spine -- the voice behind you is not nearly as demonic sounding as the voice Flowey used, but it's very low, and very slow and enunciated, and you feel more than ever before like a mouse caught by the tail, about to be torn apart. "Don't you know how to greet a new pal?" You close your eyes as tightly as you can, shaking from head to toe and hoping without much real hope that it's not obvious. Ellie's grip on your shoulder has tightened to almost painful, and you can feel her fluffing up, readying for flight, can practically hear the hunting cry burning in her throat. "Turn around... and shake my hand."

You turn, slowly, starting with the shoulder that Ellie is not on, and force your eyes to open, though now you're quite aware that your quivering is _very_ visible. You thrust out your hand and grab the extended one without looking at who you're interacting with, your heart in your throat and ready to bolt, and--

You're not proud of the high pitched shriek that overwhelms the pitiful sound of a whoopee cushion deflating. You fall backwards onto the bridge, your hood falling off and fluffing up your hair like a startled cat in its passing, and scramble back a few feet as Ellie leaps from your shoulder, flapping her wings directly at the _skeleton's_ skull. You're shaking from head to toe and it's hard to breathe and you're certain that you're crying and _god_ , you're not suited for this. You can't handle jumpscares worth a god-freaking- _damn_ **_and you were not expecting a skeleton!_**

" _Stars_ , Sans!" You can hear Ellie screeching in clear irritation, around the sound of nervous laughter and wings smacking bones. "You're some piece of work, you know that? This is way too far to take a damn joke!"

"ellie-- ellie, c'mon, i'm not exactly _thick skinned_ \--"

" _Don't you pun at me!_ "

You’re shaking so hard that you can feel the gate you’re leaning on shaking with you, and your lungs hurt even as you force chill air into them past your tightly thinned lips. Ellie is still smacking the perceived threat with her wings.

“You scared us _both_ half to death! And she’s been through more than enough today and doesn’t need _you_ being a _jerk_ for some cheap _laughs at her expense!_ ” Ellie’s staunch defense in your name, if nothing else, settles you enough that the next sound out of your mouth is just a hiccupy wheeze, rather than an overwhelmed wail.

“okay, okay-- c’mon, stop hitting me, i get it, i screwed up--” The skeleton, now that you’re getting a proper look at him and not that shotgun glance like the worst possible unexpected jumpscare, actually looks genuinely apologetic and sheepish. He has one hand in the air trying to fend off Ellie’s berating and one hand pushed into the pocket of an oversized furry jacket, and he’s leaning around trying to peer around Ellie at you, clear worry shining in his eyes.

You suck in another hiccupy wheeze, bringing one hand up to scrub miserably at your eyes and coughing a couple of times when your breath gets caught in your throat. “Ellie-- E-Ellie Bean, ‘s’okay, ‘m fine.”

“It’s _not_ okay!” Ellie insists, pulling back from Sans to hover near you, her voice dropping into worried octaves, “What if you fell off the bridge, huh? You’ve already nearly died three times today, you _didn’t_ need a fourth!”

“Three?” you hiccup, looking up at her.

“Yeah. Falling, that damn _weed_ , and Tori.”

“Tori wasn’t going to _kill_ me.”

“You nearly took a fireball to the face--!”

“Yeah, because _I_ was the idiot who ran straight at the damn thing!” you’re laughing now, shaky, but true, as Ellie whaps you a couple of times with her wings. You wipe the last few tears from your face and bring your hand down to press against your heart, focusing on the erratic beat, and in doing so, enforcing some sort of structure to it as you count out the beats.

“hey, uh…” the skeleton… what had Ellie called him? Sans? Sans clears his throat (you immediately shove aside the demanding thought questioning _how the fu--_ ) and steps toward you, slowly, with both hands out and visible, before gently extending one towards you. “for the record, uh… didn’t mean to scare you that bad. most of the time the whoopee cushion in the hand trick is a classic.”

“It… wasn't the trick that scared me.” You finally admit in a mumble and reach forward to take his hand again. Ellie Is still hovering beside you and you have no doubt that she'll break him away if he tries anything else. His hands are curiously warm, considering both that he has no skin and you're out in snow with the wind cutting right through you.

Then again, maybe it's just the fact that your own hands are freakishly cold right now, from the wind and the fact that most of your blood seems to be flooding toward your face.

“I just… the whole following thing…” you're certain that your cheeks are already bright red in embarrassment. God, you _shrieked_ in his face. And from Ellie’s reaction, you can guess he isn't an active threat. She seemed to think he was just playing a stupid prank on you. “And I wasn't expecting to… see a skeleton when I turned around. Like Ellie said, I've been kind of stressed today, it… didn't help.”

He takes his hand back and brings it back behind his head, the gesture so familiar to you that you can actually imagine him rubbing nervous tension out of the muscles in his neck, even though he doesn't have any…? “guess i wasn't exactly helping your stress then, with the whole…” he gestures back along the path. “tracking thing. sorry. i c’n be a bit of a bonehead.”

You don't think he even thinks about it, he sounds genuinely sincere, and that's why you immediately cover your mouth and nose when a sudden and very unattractive snort shocks its way out of you.

There's a poignant pause. You're not sure what to make of his expression, his gaze had snapped up to yours the second the damned sound escaped. There's something disbelieving and oddly hopeful about the way he's staring at you now.

“wait, what did i…?” He blinks, genuinely confused.

And then you start to giggle, heady and stupid from the sudden release of stress, because it shouldn't be funny but it _is_.

“Bonehead.” You squeak between giggles from behind your hands. “Skeleton.”

He blinks one more time, before his grin slowly stretches to span most of the lower half of his expression. Ellie, still hovering close and protective, rolls her eyes so hard that her head follows the movement.

“you're… not what i expected,” he chuckles, a soft but very nice sound, before holding out his hand again. “i'm sans, sans the _bonehead_ skeleton.”

You finally manage a real smile, taking his hand this time without hesitation. “ _Ice_ to meet you, Sans.”

Ellie’s groan isn't quite enough to drown out your shared stupid laughter. After a few minutes, you both finally calm down again.

“i really am sorry about _skull_ -king after you, though. ” He grins a bit wider at your amused huff of air, “i 'm actually meant to be on sentry duty, keeping an eye out for humans, but i'm not really all too into human hunting. my bro though, he's a human hunting _fanatic_.”

You must make some sort of face, because he’s instantly laughing again with his hands held up toward you, like he’s trying to wave away your worries. “hey, hey, easy. he’s pretty much harmless. couldn’t hurt a whimsun. he’s just real enthusiastic.”

“Enthusiastic about… human hunting.” You arch one eyebrow, not quite sure how to take that. Ellie has settled back on your shoulder again and is aggressively preening her wings, carefully combing feathers back into place with her beak.

“well, he says he is,” Sans shrugs, “you would be the first human he’s ever seen, though. so, uh… mind playing along? he should be coming to check on me pretty soon here, i think. it’d make his day.”

You sigh, shoving your hands back into your hoodie pockets, thinking it over. Despite the anxiety that you severely did not need that precluded this encounter, Sans seems nice enough. And he gets an odd little endearing glimmer in his eyes (or, at least, the little lights in his eye sockets) when he talks about his brother… and you think, surely it can’t do any harm?

“...you swear I won’t be in any actual danger?”

“well, can’t promise that, but i  _can_ promise i’ll watch out for you.” he shrugs again, “if you’ve managed to get that little spitfire watching your back, you must be something.” he grins again at Ellie’s huff of annoyance, though she doesn’t stop preening and doesn’t acknowledge him in any other way. “sound like a deal?”

“Well… I’ll see what I can do, I guess?” you offer. “As long as it’s nothing, you know, actually lethal.”

His grin is wide and unabashed, “then get ready, girlie.” he laughs softly under his breath, “‘cuz he’s heading this way.”


	5. Throw the Doggo A Bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy capitalistic celebration of copulation day.

The first words you can use to describe Sans’ brother would be _tall_ and _broad shouldered_. He’s got to be at least two feet taller than you, somewhere in that nebulous realm of ‘my neck hurts just attempting to make eye contact with you’. His shoulders are at least half again as wide as yours are. This, you think, is someone who could probably carry you without batting an eyelash, and not just because he doesn’t have any to bat.

Sans, at least, is a nice complimentary height, only a few inches taller than you, and he slouches those away anyway. You feel a mild sense of trepidation when you listen to their banter, wherein Sans points you out, and self-proclaimed ‘The _Great_ Papyrus’ jolts his arms into a wild simulacrum of a heroic pose. Sans dodges the too-fast movement like a pro, but your first thought is ‘ _Oh yeah, that isn't dangerous at all._ ’

Nonetheless, you smile and wave at the clear enthusiasm shining out of Papyrus’ eyesockets, and bite down on an endeared chuckle as he loudly proclaims your inevitable doom. It’s weirdly cute -- and you can see what Sans meant by him being enthusiastic.

By the time he’s dashed off along the path ahead of you to ‘recalibrate his puzzles’, the wind is biting into your cheeks and your jaw hurts from trying valiantly not to beam at how adorable Papyrus seems to be. You finally let out your small laugh, shoving your hands back into your hoodie pockets and crunching through the snow toward Sans again, who hasn’t stopped grinning since Papyrus arrived. There’s a true sense of contentment radiating off of him.

“he’s pretty amazing, ain’t he?” Sans asks as you get close, and you can’t help but smile. His words are genuine -- he really means what he says, there’s honest admiration in his voice. You pause a couple of feet away, thinking over the entirety of the encounter, and in your feigned thoughtfulness you note the intent stare he’s got you pinioned with. You get the feeling that your answer matters a lot to him.

“I can see what you mean,” you smile, a bit, and note how his smile relaxes minutely as well. “He seems… uniquely fearless. It’s an admirable trait.” You can feel the strain at the edges of your smile as you mention this, but refuse to let anything sour this moment. Papyrus is genuine and unafraid to show it in a way that you’ve found to be a rarity in the world, and a rarity to find within yourself as well.

“fearless?” he repeats, seeming intrigued by your choice of words.

“Mm.” you hum a soft affirmation, nodding slightly and turning your gaze away from his intense one, feigning deep thought again mostly because there’s something about the way he’s staring you down that makes you feel like you’re being examined. “He’s not afraid to show his enthusiasm about things, or to let circumstances deter him, or... afraid to be himself, I guess... and I got the impression that he… probably tends to see the best in people?” you gesture helplessly, glancing up at him, “Last bit’s more of a gut feeling, though.”

“you usually get gut feelings about people you’ve just met?” he asks, sounding vaguely amused.

“More often than I can count.” You faux-lament, shrugging. “I work in retail...up top. First impressions are sometimes the only impressions I get, so… I’ve learned to make them count.”

 _Plus_ , your mind whispers traitorously, _it would make sense to meet someone to be jealous of for a trait I wish I had, at this point in an RPG--_

You cut off the thought before it can finish itself, squashing it into the thick morass of twisted emotions that always seems to surround your perception of yourself. You’ve long come to the conclusion that being even the tiniest bit decent at reading people only makes it harder to ignore your own perceived faults. Understanding the motivating forces that impel people to make the decisions they do only makes it easier to question your own motivating forces.

You recognize the masks that people wear, and are all the more hyper aware of your own.

“Is that how you figured out about Tori so fast?” Ellie asks quietly, seeming intrigued.

“Well, kinda.” you purse your lips, “With her it was a lot of things. She mothered me from the second she saw me… offered a total stranger to stay with her _ad infinitum_ …” you smile ruefully, “...had a child’s room in her home with no signs of any actual children…”

Ellie lets out a faint trill, looking thoughtful herself.

“All of that just sort of… sang of old hurts and trying to push them away with helping others.” you finish, shrugging again, “It made sense.”

Sans is still watching you, and you’re distinctly getting the feeling like you’re a lab rat running in a maze, and he’s taking notes. You turn to meet his gaze again, forcing yourself to challenge it, because it’s kind of starting to make you nervous. You wonder what he’s thinking.

“i must have made a less than _sans-sational_ first impression.” he jokes, but his eyes are still locked on you like you’re an interesting puzzle he’s trying to solve.

You nonetheless laugh weakly at the pun, bringing a hand out of your hoodie pocket to rub at the back of your neck. “Not as pitiful as mine must have been. I mean, I screamed in your face.”

“i _did_ reportedly scare you half to death.” you’re pretty sure you can pick up strain in his smile.

“Let’s just call that the zero’th impression, then,” you offer a rueful chuckle, “Because to be honest, I wasn’t in any state to take any first impressions at that point.”

It’s oddly gratifying to see his smile relax, even minutely, from your offer of truce. “what’s your first impression of _me_ , then? any gut feelings i should know about?”

 _Well my gut’s tied in knots right now--_ your brain supplies helpfully. You throw that thought toward the morass of self-introspection that you avoid like the plague as well.

“You seem,” you say instead, focusing on him with a small, hesitant smile, “like someone who really adores his brother, and probably who would do anything for him. Someone who likes to make people laugh…” you tilt your head, blinking and focusing further. Your smile falls away into a faint, intent frown, staring him down the same way he had been staring you down before, as something catches your gut instinct and yanks it on a ninety degree turn down an unexpected path. “...but, someone who knows a lot about fear, as well.”

You get to see first hand how the amused glimmer falls away from his eyes, even as you continue, “It’s funny, almost… you’re actually kind of hard to read, beyond the funny-guy who clearly loves his brother, but… there’s something-- _guarded_ \--about it. It’s not a simple difficulty, it’s almost… deliberate, if that makes sense?” Your faint frown grows, and you tilt your head the other way, shifting angles on your staring him down. You've never had difficulty reading anyone like this before, and you find yourself murmuring your thoughts aloud, as you-- _push--_ just a little, and you're struck with a clarity that startles you. “...It’s almost like…not just that I confuse you, which… clearly I do, for some reason, but... almost like you’re... afraid of me, somehow?”

For a few heart-stopping seconds, you see the little lights in his eyes shrink down to pinpricks, the sockets dark and foreboding. Another anxious shiver rolls down your spine. His smile also shrinks, a twitch that makes you worry you said too much. The difficulty felt deliberate -- on _his_ end. Like he was guarding himself. And here you just pushed your way through. _Way to go and be a massive jerk to someone who's been nothing but nice to you,_ you think to yourself, acerbically.

Your eyes snap away, down to the ground, wide and nervous, as the silence drags on. Even Ellie has gone silent, turning her head between you and Sans as though watching the silence itself ping pong it's way between you. You hope she doesn't feel like a third wheel in this conversation, even though you've never made any effort to exclude her.

“... heh…” the soft chuckle is uncomfortable to your perception, though it's surprising how well that discomfort is hidden. You peek up nervously to see Sans has shoved his hands back in his hoodie pockets and has looked away himself. “dunno how you got all that,” he says, no longer looking at you. You're at once thankful that the searching stare he had on you is done and feeling like even more absolute trash because you know you just messed up somehow and now he won't _look at you_ at all. “you're on point about paps, though. he really is fearless. soul the epitome of bravery.”

Your stomach twists and you wonder if you just ruined your chance to make your first friend down here outside of the Ruins. You swallow thinly and twist your fingers together in your hoodie pocket, shivering miserably and lowering your face again.

“I guess I shouldn't keep him waiting,” you mutter, aiming for casual and jocular even as you turn to beat a hasty retreat after Papyrus. You don’t notice the sharp look he casts after you as you hurry along, extremely aware of the cold again.

Hiding in your hood helps, a little bit, for both the wind and the lump in your throat. You tug it up and duck your head again.

“What was that?” Ellie asks softly once you're a decent distance away from him. She sounds genuinely confused and more than a little concerned with how tense you now are.

“That was an appearance of my frequent and spectacular foot in mouth disorder.” You mutter back, grimacing, as you pass a fork in the road and choose to keep going straight. “I shouldn't have said everything I did.”

“Why not? He asked.” She frowns, “You were just answering his question.”

“I don't think he really thought I could actually pick up on anything.” You murmur back, “I think he was just humoring me. I think he didn't want me to actually get anything, but I… pushed through anyway.”

“... so that… all of that… was for real? You really think he's scared of you?”

You grimace, “I… I don’t know. Maybe scared isn’t the best word, but… he was definitely wary. And… tense? Uncomfortable, maybe?” you’re starting to shiver more as you continue walking, the long and winding path through the trees feeling far too empty and exposed. “It was like… like he was waiting for me to do something horrible.”

“...you screamed in terror upon seeing him and your first instinct was to fall over and cry.”

“Thank you for softening the blow.” you stick your tongue out toward Ellie, even as she trills out that chittery clicking noise that makes up laughter for her. Your clear sarcasm is tempered by your tired grin. “You are a true friend and a wonderful protector, I’m constantly astounded by your kindness and gentle nature.”

“Whatever you say, scaredy-cat.” she chirps, trilling and leaning over to bump her head against your cheek again. You can feel the tense knot in your stomach slowly unwinding as she starts to preen the hair above your ear. “Honestly, though, I don’t see what he could be wary of where you’re concerned. You’re more harmless than a whimsun. You back out of more encounters than you get into and those that you do get stuck in, you spend your turns talking at your opponent and doing everything in your power to diffuse the situation.” Ellie laughs again, the sound musical and fond, to your ear, “Honestly, it's like you don't even know what the concept of fighting is.”

“I know that it hurts the people fighting and I want nothing to do with it.” You tease back, before your smile falls again. “Like I told Toriel, I can't stand other people being hurt, especially when I can do something about it. And I especially can’t stand knowing that I hurt someone.” you bite your lip, “And I think I really overstepped some sort of boundary with him.”

“Well, ‘m sure you’ll handle it somehow.” Ellie trills, before hunkering down into your shoulder again. “We should hurry, though, it’s freezing out here. Let’s just get to Snowdin.”

You pause by a slightly battered looking little hut out in the woods, leaning down to read the sign pasted to the front.

> _YOU OBSERVE THE WELL-CRAFTED SENTRY STATION.  
>  WHO COULD HAVE BUILT THIS, YOU PONDER…  
>  I BET IT WAS THAT VERY FAMOUS ROYAL GUARDSMAN! _
> 
> _(NOTE: NOT YET A VERY FAMOUS ROYAL GUARDSMAN.)_

Something about it makes you snicker fondly. It seems just like Papyrus to set up a sign like this. Shaking your head with a smile, you continue on your way, seeing another little hut a bit further down the path.

Paps sure did enjoy building things, you guess. You continue walking forward, intending to go past it, when suddenly there’s a sword thrust out in front of you at the level of your neck, and you _freeze_.

“Did somethin’ move?” You hear a low toned, very canine growl, and shift your eyes to the left to see thin lips pulled back from rows of teeth, and faded blue eyes shifting in all directions. The husky-like dog monster seems to be partially blind.

“That’s Doggo.” Ellie whispers, slurring her s sounds so only you can hear her, her feathers puffed up in startlement. “He can only see things that move. Stay completely still when he attacks -- breathing is okay, but don’t move a muscle.”

“But… if he can only see things that move, wouldn’t it be more polite to move a little bit constantly so he can see me?” You whisper back, frowning faintly. Ellie pauses, looking at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“He’s a guard. He’s supposed to capture humans. Y’know.” She smacks the side of your head with a wing as if to say ‘like you, dummy’, one quick motion that snaps the dog’s eyes toward your face again. You puff air out of your nose in irritation before starting to deliberately sway from side to side. His eyes follow the motion, and the curled snarl of his mouth eases slightly in confusion.

“Hi.” you speak, in a conversational tone, despite Ellie’s high pitched trilling sound of aggravation. “Look, um, I’m sorry for startling you, I just want to pass through. Is that okay?”

“...You’re movin’.” his eyes narrow at you.

“Yes. You can only see things that move, right? It’s only polite.” You manage, somehow, to keep your tone calm and sensible -- maybe it’s all your practice in retail. Your experience with other people tends to revolve around ‘don’t make their day worse’. “I thought it might be less nerve-wracking on your part to see who you’re talking to--”

“You’re a _human_.” He’s growling openly now. “I’m s’posed t’capture humans.”

“And I bet you’ve been told humans are supposed to hurt monsters?” Ellie speaks up, though you can hear her displeasure in her voice as she fluffs up her feathers more to make a small, but constant movement, like you’re doing. “Doggo, ease up already. This one’s harmless and is gonna fall apart shivering at this rate, and I’d personally like to see us both nested down in Snowdin before the day is through.”

His ears fold back, “Ellie? What’re you doin’ helpin’ a human?”

“Doesn’t matter. Seriously, I’m cold, she’s cold, we’re both tired, just let us through, yeah? We can do this whole thing tomorrow if you want.”

“Not likely--” he snarls, vaulting the counter of the guardpost and landing in front of you, and you feel the beginning of a telltale tug to your soul. You do what you always do; panic, and react.

You thrust your hand out toward him, palm first, and snap in as authoritative a tone as you can muster, “ _No._ ” He recoils, blinking, and you continue before you can question yourself, “Bad dog. _Sit._ ”

He drops down into the snow, his knives falling from his hands, looking mildly bewildered. A faint, low whine starts in the back of his throat.

You kind of can’t believe that worked.

Ellie has frozen on your shoulder. You briefly worry that she might have stopped breathing somehow in her shock.

“Good boy. That’s a good Doggo.” you bite down a feeling like you’re abusing your power, and slowly lower your trembling hand. “Good Doggos don’t attack nice people, do they? _Do_ they~?” You’ve always been more of a dog person, and your voice almost naturally falls into the softly wheedling tone of encouragement. You sneak a glance over to the counter, and swipe a bone shaped treat from where it was laying on the edge.

Almost against his will (you can tell, by the still bewildered look on his face), his tail starts thumping loudly against the snow behind him. “’m a good Doggo.” he mumbles, staring up at you. You wiggle the treat in the air and his eyes lock onto it, and you _definitely_ feel like you’re abusing your power here as he starts visibly squirming with excitement.

Ellie is now shaking on your shoulder, her head pulled down underneath a wing.

“You _are_ a good Doggo.” You nod, “Good boy. Paw.” You hold out your hand, and he reaches up to take it like he’s in some sort of trance. You heave him upright, pressing the treat into his hand as you do so, and let go of him as soon as his expression clears. “S-Sorry.”

“What…” he blinks, staring down at the treat in his hand, which he’s rolling between three very furry fingers, “What just… happened?”

You mumble another soft ‘sorry’ and pull your hood up to hide in it again while Ellie dissolves into hysterical giggles on your shoulder. Your face and your ears are burning. “I swear I didn’t mean to, I just-- you looked like a dog about to jump on me, a-and I-- I _reacted_ . I’m so sorry, oh my god, I _basically_ just infringed upon your free will, that was a really horrible thing to do--”

Ellie gasps harshly for air in between giggles and you’re extremely torn between wanting to sink into the ground and never return and being concerned with your friend’s health, because she’s laughing so hard you don’t know if she can actually breathe anymore.

You pull your hoodie closed over your face and shake your head from side to side, a high pitched keening noise starting in the back of your throat.

“Hhhhhohmygod.” Ellie wheezes, “That was _incredible_ . Holy shit. By the _stars_ , Doggo, d’you think that would work on the rest of the Dog Squad? She just-- completely redirected you. You just--” she lets out another halfway-hysterical wheeze and hides her head in a wing again. “You just _did what she said_. Like instinct.”

Doggo is still blinking, mildly confused, before he tilts his head. “...it… might.” he sounds oddly thoughtful, “Er… is it too late to apologize? It might be useful to ah… learn that trick. For helpin’ GD with the trainin’ sessions.” he brings the treat up to nibble on it, looking everywhere but at you, even though you’re still swaying and shaking your head and keening in embarrassment.

“It’s not,” Ellie answers for you, still giggling, “She’s just having a moment.”

“Shut uuuuup.” You whine, pulling your hood tighter against your face.

“Look, I’m complimenting you. I don’t know what that just was, but it worked. Sincerely. I’ve never seen any of the dog squad calm down that fast.”

“It _was_ pretty impressive.” Doggo mutters gruffly, prompting you to finally peek out from inside of your hood, your face still tomato-red.

“You’re not… mad?” you ask dubiously.

“Well,” Doggo clears his throat, the sound close to a low, embarrassed sounding whuff. “I’d rather you didn’t do it _again_ , but…”

And somehow, through your own embarrassment and your frantic insistences that you have _no intentions_ of doing it again, you see him actually smile.

He pats a hand against your head (you blink in surprise at the almost affectionate scratching behind your ear) and lets out a low, growly sort of chuckle, “Then let’s call it even, a’right? I clearly did somethin’ you weren’t comfortable with by tryin’ to attack, you did the same for me, we both apologize and put it behind us, that sorta thing?”

“I’m…” you smile, tentatively, continuing to sway so he can see you (a fact that you notice he appreciates, if the softening of his eyes is any indication), “That sounds great. Truce?”

“Truce.” he meets your hand with his own again, and you shake it definitively. “Sorry f’r delayin’ your gettin’ to Snowdin. Maybe I’ll see you at Grillby’s if you make it?”

“I dunno what Grillby’s is but it sounds like it’s warm and has food and I’m probably going to love it.” you answer plaintively, at the same time that your stomach points out to you that it’s been at least five, probably closer to seven hours since you ate anything more than a slice of pie that morning... and even then, it wasn't much.

You’re not entirely sure why that makes both Ellie and Doggo laugh. He raises a hand to wave you along, and you hurry to accept the escape, raising your own hand as you hurry along down the path again.

Ellie, on the other hand, nestles close to your shoulder and nuzzles her head against your cheek. She lets out one more chittery, contented laugh,  “Eventually you’re going to actually know what you’re doing, and it’s going to be so surreal.”

Your response is a small, genuinely amused laugh. “With my luck, that’ll be when anything I do _won’t_ work.”


	6. Never Underestimate Papyrus. Ever. Just Don't Do It.

You grow quiet, slowing to a stop as Papyrus comes back into view ahead of you. Sans is standing beside him with his hands pushed into his pockets -- a fact that makes you pause and look back over your shoulder, blinking in surprise. He went in the opposite direction of you when you parted, seeming to head backwards toward the Ruins, and you didn’t see him pass you on the path, nor did you see any roundabout paths that could lead from the Ruins to here--

You turn back around again, and shake your head. Not your business, no matter how much you feel like you’re missing something.

There’s a squared off section of snow that looks freshly overturned between you and the two skeleton brothers, with ridges marking off the sides of it, across most of the width of the path. Papyrus is gesticulating wildly at Sans, who seems to be almost boredly dodging the wild swings of Papyrus’ arms, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Perhaps it is, for them.

“ YOU ARE SUCH A LAZY-BONES, SANS. YOU SPENT ALL OF LAST NIGHT NAPPING! ”

“i , eh, think that’s just called  _ sleeping _ bro. ” 

“ EXCUSES, EXCUSES! THINK OF HOW MUCH YOU COULD HAVE GOTTEN DONE IN THOSE HOURS! ” 

“h uh, i guess you’re right. i could’ve had  _ multiple _ naps in that time. ”

You can’t detect any discomfort in Sans’ voice, and wonder if that’s just because he’s talking to Papyrus or if he’s really that good at regulating his own reactions. His tone is nothing but tried-and-true fondness, his smile up toward his brother soft and sweet, and there’s a sleepy sort of relaxation around his eye-sockets. You feel the edges of your own mouth curve upward in a slightly strained mimicry of his expression, watching the two of them interact. There’s something... alluring to their easy, familial camaraderie.

You’re struck by a sudden and very intense surge of homesickness, and you’ve only been down here for a few hours. You phoned your parents literally that morning, too, even though you’ve been out hopping cities for the past four years or so. You have no reason to miss them yet.

(You nonetheless surreptitiously pull out your phone and are irrationally disappointed at the fact that you  _ still _ have no outside signal. God, you’re pathetic.)

Not to mention you’ve convinced yourself that you've pretty much viciously trampled any former homesickness before this point -- you made peace with the fact that you hadn't seen them in person in a while,  so... why are you...

_...envious? _

Papyrus takes note of your presence at that moment, giving you premise to mercilessly trample the dangerously self-introspective train of thought. You throw it at the mountain of forcefully ignored self-perception and bite down on the inside of your lower lip to hold onto your smile as Sans takes note of your presence as well.

“ OH-HO! THE HUMAN ARRIVES! ” Papyrus strikes another pose, and Sans doesn’t even look his way as he dodges -- you’re really just getting the impression that literally, this is just how Papyrus is. There’s no other excuse for why Sans is so nonchalant about his dodging. He just seems to know how Papyrus moves, it’s like he knows what’s coming.

You keep your eyes on Papyrus and try not to pay attention to the guarded, intense stare that Sans has locked onto you with. You’re not sure which is worse -- before, when he wouldn’t look at you, or now, staring at you like a you’re a  _ literal _ ticking time bomb. Keeping your focus on Papyrus, at least, makes it easier to keep your plastic smile affixed to your face.

You notice something in Papyrus’ own expression change, just... a flicker in the way he’s looking at you. His own gleeful grin takes on an odd stiffness itself, and you think you see his eyelights flicker between you and Sans.

Sans doesn’t seem to notice Papyrus’ attention, still intently staring at you. You don’t dare to look at him properly, but you  _ know _ he isn’t smiling.

_ Don’t think about it. _ You tighten your hands around each other in your hoodie pocket, until your knuckles pop with how much pressure you’re putting on your fingers. You might have already screwed things over with Sans, but you’re  _ not _ going to let your damned foot-in-mouth-disorder ruin things for Papyrus. He’s too much of a sweetheart from what you can tell and you don’t want to make things...  _ bad. _

Your own mouth kind of hurts a little, keeping the smile going, but you’re well-practiced in the art of “grin and bear it”. It’s a tenet of retail, after all. 

“Oh no.” You pull one hand free, putting the tips of your fingers to your mouth in a titter. “The Great Papyrus has spotted us, Ellie. There goes our chances of sneaking past!”

“Well, I don’t know about you,” Ellie picks up her cue beautifully, fluttering up off of your shoulder with an equally cheerful tone, though you note the quick glance she tosses your way. She’s getting almost scarily observant of your emotional state and you’re not sure if that’s a good thing or not. “I can get past at any time, you know.”

“ INDEED, HUMAN! ” Papyrus interjects, “ IN FACT! IN ORDER TO STOP YOU, MY BROTHER AND I HAVE CREATED SOME PUZZLES! ” He gestures expansively at the square of upturned snow between you. Sans ducks without breaking his stare. “ I THINK YOU WILL FIND THIS ONE... ”

You’re  _ definitely not _ imagining the fact that Papyrus just wiggled his  _ brow bone _ at you.

“ ...QUITE  _ SHOCKING _ . ”

...

Okay then.

You guess this is probably some sort of--

“ FOR YOU SEE, THIS IS THE INVISIBLE ELECTRICITY MAZE! ”

Yep, called it.

He holds up a small metallic looking orb, seemingly pleased by the slight moment of relaxation you allow yourself, enjoying the silly pun. Puns made by people who don’t use them often are like, twice as special, and from what you’ve seen of his reactions to Sans, he’s not one to make them often. “ WHEN YOU TOUCH THE 'WALLS' OF THIS MAZE, THIS ORB WILL ADMINISTER A HEARTY ZAP! SOUND LIKE FUN??? ”

Intriguingly, your smile is a lot more natural now that you have to drop it for an appropriate look of dismay.

“ YOU MAY NOW PROCEED! WITH! THE PUZZLE! ”

For a long moment, you don’t move, glancing between him and the square in front of you. You’re sincerely debating whether you should say it. Ellie is still hovering, looking at you like you’re an idiot for even considering pointing out the flaw in this situation.

“...so, like,” you start, smiling sheepishly while Ellie lets out a loud sigh and shakes her head at your impractical sense of fairness. You rub at the back of your neck with the hand that’s still hanging outside of your pocket, “just for clarification, um... the orb’ll zap me from all the way over there in your hands?”

“ I... ” Papyrus pauses, his smile briefly falling into a thoughtful frown. “ ...ACTUALLY, NO. ” he hums, blinking at you with an odd look in his eye. “ ODD, I... FORGOT ABOUT THAT PART. HOLD ON, I MUST-- ”

“h ere, bro. ” Sans speaks for the first time since you were noticed, reaching up and grabbing the glassy metal ball. “i c’n get it over there. you know i’m better at precision jumps. ”

_ Precision jumps? _

You almost blink and miss it -- but suddenly Sans isn’t standing next to Papyrus, he’s next to you, placing the ball on top of your head-- you grab it before it can fall, and he’s back next to Papyrus like he hadn’t even moved. 

“ TH...THANK YOU, SANS. ” You know you’re not imagining the surprised look on Papyrus’ face. “ THAT’S... REMARKABLY PROACTIVE OF YOU. ”

Sans shrugs, looking away with an equally forced grin, “i do my job sometimes. ”

You take a breath of frigid air in through your nose, and curl your hands around the ball like a lifeline. The tension has spiked and you irrationally can't help but feel like it's somehow still your fault.

You can even imagine how this might have gone if Sans hadn't interrupted. Best case scenario, Papyrus would have walked through the maze to give you the ball and you would have had your solution. He seemed surprised when Sans did his... whatever that was. Teleporting? Whatever. 

Worst case scenario, he would have walked around the maze and then insisted you do it properly anyway, but at least you would have known where things stood, there. You know how things are, now, at least. 

You force your smile back on, aiming for amicable. “So... it's an actual path, right? No diagonals or... jumps or...”

_ Don't think about it  _ seems to have become your motto for the time being. You had a puzzle to think your way through, and knowing the rules would help. No time to waste on being nervous and worried about messing things up more.

“ YES, IT IS INDEED A LEGITIMATE PATH. ” Papyrus is still casting his eyes between you and Sans, seeming to understand that the both of you are uncomfortable and tense about something. He shows no signs of actually knowing what the tension is about, but your measure of him nonetheless reevaluates itself to include ‘surprisingly perceptive despite first impressions’.

“And I'm guessing I'm not allowed to just... put this down, huh?” You hold up the metal ball.

“w ouldn't be a very hard puzzle if you could. ” Sans’ tone is jocular but there's still a hard edge to it that makes you freeze your smile again, just so you won't wince. 

“Al...right.” You nod. A tentative idea is forming in your head, and you step to the rightmost corner of the side nearest you. You toss the ball straight up in the air a few times, catching it each time to get used to the timing. After five or six goes, you throw it up and step forward with one foot into the corner. 

It crackles with electricity as it reaches its peak, and you quickly step back again before catching it once more. You move a step to the left and repeat the throw-step-retreat-catch movement. 

Papyrus, for one, looks like a kid that just saw Santa for the first time. He's clearly realized what you're doing and seems impressed by your decided path to the solution. It’s slow and more brute-force than finesse at the moment, but it’s a way for you to figure it out.

“This might take a while,” you joke, and Sans lets out a small huff, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets.

“i ’m gonna go rework my next puzzle, then, ” he announces, his grin holding no warmth, and turns in place and disappears before you or Papyrus can react. Papyrus even turns to look behind him, humming in confusion.

Your smile falls, just for a moment, while Papyrus has his back turned from you. By the time he’s turned around again, you’re back to looking professionally unworried and cheerful. You lift your gaze toward Ellie, who isn’t even bothering to hide her worried stare in your direction.

“Ellie, if you want, I'll meet you in Snowdin...”

She hesitates where she's hovering, looking indecisive. “I... could go grab some things, but I'll be back...?”

“I mean it, though.” you press, “I won't mind if you want to wait for me. I'll be along as soon as possible.”

Her resolve becomes clear on her face. “No, I'll definitely come back. I'll bring something warm for you.” And with that she wings off into the distance above the treeline.

You slowly lower your gaze from watching her and continue your process, alternating hands when one gets too cold for your liking. Even when you finally find a step that doesn't zap (you drag your foot in the snow outside of the square to mark the spot), you test a step or two further to try and gauge how wide the ‘path’ is. It’s about three feet wide, by your estimation -- you shift back to the center of it after marking off the other end, stepping forward and beginning to check the next steps forward.

Papyrus only watches you for the longest time, and you keep your focus on the task at hand.

“ ...HUMAN. ” he finally speaks up when you come to a point where you can go no further forward, so you retreat a foot and start checking along the sides of the path for a turn. He sounds inquisitive and uncertain, “ DID... DID SOMETHING HAPPEN BETWEEN YOU AND MY BROTHER? ”

It’s a left turn. You duck your head at the chance to not be facing him, but you can’t just stay quiet when you’ve been asked a direct question.

“...kind of.” you admit quietly. “I... think I might have upset him.”

You sneak a glance up at him and see that his smile has fallen into a pointed frown.

“ I MAKE A POINT NOT TO JUDGE BEFORE I KNOW THE ENTIRE SITUATION, ” he announces, a quietly intense note to his voice, “ BUT I WOULD JUST LIKE TO ANNOUNCE THAT I RESERVE THE RIGHT TO PROTECT HIM AS I SEE FIT. ”

“I would be worried if you didn’t.” you stop, catching the ball and feeling a shiver run down your spine. “I...” you force another grin, but this one is all teeth and no humor. “We were, uh, joking. I... mentioned that you seemed like you were particularly fearless, and... that I tend to be really good with first impressions, really good at reading people... He asked what my first impression of him was...” you hunch your shoulders, taking a second to pull your hood up again and hide in it.

“I-- I should have realized he was trying to stop me from seeing much--” you shake your head, shaking now but it has nothing to do with the cold. “I pushed too far-- it...” your breathing is uneven. “He’s got every reason to be wary of me now, after that.”

“ ...WHAT  _ EXACTLY  _ DID YOU SAY TO HIM? ” There’s a guarded warning in Papyrus’ voice, now.

“...” you sigh, then peek up and see no eyelights in Papyrus’ eyes, and wince visibly, “I--okay, I said that I not only confused him, but also that he was also maybe scared of me though I didn’t know why. I-I think he was trying to hide that. I don’t think he thought I’d actually--”

He holds up a hand and you fall silent at once. 

“ WAS IT YOUR  _ INTENT _ TO MAKE HIM UNCOMFORTABLE? ” 

His voice is hard and direct. You feel like you’ve witnessed an entire character transformation, simply by taking note of his tone of voice through this conversation. He started out as the slightly ditzy, but adorable enthusiastic wannabe guardsman, but where his brother’s safety and happiness is concerned...

You’re actually...  _ really _ intimidated.

You shake your head, biting miserably at your lip and finding it suddenly very hard to keep eye contact with him. “I... have a bad habit of saying more than I should.” You duck down again, squeezing at the metal ball like a life-line. “I never  _ intend _ for it to hurt. But. Sometimes it just... comes out wrong. Sometimes I don’t think about what I’m saying before it’s already been said, and I only realize that it’s hurtful afterwards.”

“ THEN WHY HAVE YOU NOT ALREADY APOLOGISED? ” He asks, and the hardness has melted from his voice. He’s no longer interrogating you, but he’s still not messing around either.

You open your mouth, about to assert that you didn’t get a chance before, but your throat closes on you. You’re not going to lie to him. You _can’t_. Not to Papyrus. Not when he’s been _absolutely_ ** _nothing_** but genuine with his actions toward you.

You had a chance. You had more chance than you probably deserved, to immediately apologize to Sans. You just didn’t take it.

“...I...” you duck your head further, your voice automatically attempting to latch a humorous uptone onto the phrases -- a defensive mechanism you know and recognize. It fails. “I’m... a coward. I knew I messed up, I knew I had somehow hurt him, even if I didn’t know why what I said was hurtful, and I...”  _ escaped. Retreated. Fled. _ “ran away, before, at the first chance I got. I want to apologize... but... I’m  _ scared. _ ” you swallow heavily, and it  _ hurts _ even saying the words. It hurts like seeping a long infected wound. Blinding pain, even though you know it’s better, in the end. 

“I’m not brave,” you force out in a tiny, extremely tense tone. “Not like you. I’ve never been able to... to stand seeing people hurt.  _ Especially  _ when I’m the one who  _ did _ it. I don't know if I  _ can _ just... face my mistakes.” Admitting all of this... it feels vulnerable. You want to run away from it. It’s too... it’s... It’s  _ you. _ You’ve never been good at talking about  _ you _ . 

Hell, you’ve never been good at  _ thinking _ about yourself. Too many faults, too clear perception. Low hanging fruit for an already anxious and self-depreciative young adult -- you couldn’t risk spiraling down into some sort of self-induced depression -- better for your overall emotional state not to examine too closely. To just... stay away from it.

He’s quiet, and you keep your eyes locked on the ground, your hands clenching and relaxing and clenching again around the ball. Then, there’s the sound of him moving, and you look up to see him striding through the snow to a point on the side of the maze, stepping into it without hesitation and following a path that leads directly to the spot where you now stand.

He stands before you, and very calmly and deliberately takes the ball from your hands, throwing it over the edge of a drop-off in the caverns. You think you hear it shatter a full 3 seconds later.

Then he’s hugging you, and your resolve crumbles with the last of your self control. You’re clinging back to him and furiously telling yourself that you are  _ not _ going to cry again today, damnit.

“ YOU ARE PLENTY BRAVE, HUMAN. ” he says with a certainty and a fervor that shocks you. “ ACKNOWLEDGING THE FEAR IS THE HARDEST STEP! ONCE YOU ARE WILLING TO ADMIT IT, YOU ARE READY TO FACE IT, AND SURPASS IT. ”

He wraps a hand onto your shoulder, and helps you stumble through the rest of the now-defunct puzzle that you had honestly tried to solve. 

“ I WILL PROVIDE YOU EMOTIONAL SUPPORT, SO THAT YOU CAN FIND YOUR OWN BRAVERY WITHIN YOUR SOUL, AND APOLOGIZE! ”

Your hands had gone numb from the cold at some point without your notice while you were... kind of throwing yourself under a bus. The actual impact of that bus came with Papyrus’ unexpected faith and encouragement. That was it; critical hit, game over, you’d bared your weak spot and he had  _ nailed it _ with unflinching kindness and support.

_ Well,  _ you think dubiously, as he lets go of you and lets you stand on your own again.  _ At least knowing someone that is an infinitely better person than me and who will likely always  _ **_be_ ** _ an infinitely better person than me includes  _ **_knowing_ ** _ that person.  _

You can’t help it. You weakly laugh at your stupid thought, bringing a hand up to wipe at your damp eyes. “Yeah.” you murmur, “Okay. Sounds like a deal.”

\---

Papyrus’ wide, beaming smile...

...fills you with  **DETERMINATION.**

And just the  _ tiniest  _ bit of what might... be actual **BRAVERY** **.**


	7. Puzzles Are Easier Than People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment to help this author thrive and to make sure that the 12 chapter lead she has doesn't dwindle away to nothing so that you'll continue getting your bi-weekly doses of socially anxious reader fumbling around in the underground for the foreseeable future
> 
> or do nothing, and continue getting those bi-weekly doses anyway, but fail to make this author giddy and potentially run the risk of that 12 chapter lead disappearing and updates being more spread out.
> 
> your choice. C=

You’re very aware of how cold the woods really are becoming. Your fingertips have gone numb with a sharp, pins and needles feeling, and you start to actually worry about frostbite. You know that your nose already feels like it’s going to fall off. A part of you wonders if it’s actually getting colder as you proceed, since it didn’t feel this cold when you first exited the Ruins.

Your musing is interrupted by a thick fluffy jacket smacking you in the face, followed by two equally fluffy mittens once you’ve caught the jacket. Ellie flutters down in front of you, looking very smug.

The jacket looks identical to the one Sans has been wearing, and the gloves are also very similar to his own.

“Your brother left his room window open,” Ellie announces primly toward Papyrus, “I hope you don’t mind that I _borrowed_ a couple of warmer articles of clothing from his also open closet.”

The emphasis on _borrowed_ leaves you with the distinct impression that the door and the window were _not_ open when Ellie arrived, even if they were now.

Papyrus, for his part, lets out a soft chuckle. “WELL, IT SERVES HIM RIGHT FOR… LEAVING HIS ROOM OPEN.”

You look up at Ellie to see that she’s wrapped a handkerchief around her neck like a scarf, and she looks altogether too smug for words. You quickly pull on the mittens and tug the jacket on over your thin sweatshirt, raising your hands to let her light down in them. You smile.

“Oh my gosh these are so _warm_.” you let her hop onto your shoulder, before hugging the jacket close and ducking your chin down into the fur-lined hood. “It’s going to be awful when I have to give them back…”

“We can get something similar strictly for you in the shop at town, but you can’t freeze before then.” Ellie teases, “So let’s hurry up and get through these puzzles, alright? I’ve got a craving three miles high for Grillby’s and I’m betting you’re gonna love it.”

You shove your hands back into the pockets and let out a soft sigh of absolute bliss. You’re not sure what it is, but you think that this jacket or the mittens have to be infused with magic -- you can actually feel the sensation coming back into your fingers. “I’ll sincerely have to ask Sans where he got his.” you mutter to yourself. “I don’t care how much I have to pay to get one this good, I’m absolutely no good with cold.”

Papyrus chuckles, “I BELIEVE SANS GOT MOST OF HIS JACKETS IN THE CAPITAL, ACTUALLY. THEY’RE MAGICALLY INFUSED TO HELP WARD OFF ANY UNCOMFORTABLE TEMPERATURES, SO THAT NO MATTER WHERE YOU ARE, IT WILL REMAIN COMFORTABLE.”

“I will pay whatever it takes,” you repeat, looking up at Papyrus with wide eyes. “Do you know how much money people will pay for good clothes? I’ve seen people pay close to two hundred dollars for durable, well fitted winter jackets. And _this thing_ puts those to shame if it does what you say it does.”

“Two hundred… are dollars like gold?” Ellie asks softly.

“I… don’t know. We’d pay maybe half a dollar for a donut, not seven gold? And I don’t know how monster gold would fare on the gold market, but…” you hum, frowning, pulling out one of your last bits of gold (it seemed like monsters just left it lying around sometimes, it was weird but fortunate for you and your lack of any other way to earn it). “A piece like this is maybe… three grams? If it matches regular gold, this piece alone would be worth close to four thousand dollars.”

Ellie lets out a soft hum in thought, as you continue forward, and the conversation is derailed by the sight before you. Sans is lounging on a chair made out of snow, with a newspaper open on his lap to the daily crossword. Between him and you, there’s a table with three small objects on it -- one, you immediately recognize.

 _Oh man, is that a Rubik’s cube?_ You can’t help but smile. You haven’t done a Rubik’s cube in ages -- they used to infuriate you as a kid, and you used to always ruin the ones you got by peeling off the stickers to ‘solve’ them, until an older teen showed you the trick. You weren’t sure if you remembered the motions exactly, but you knew you could get to the last couple of steps pretty easily. The cube itself looked like it had already been scrambled for you.

The two objects on either side of it take a bit more examination to recognize, but you still smile at the sight of them. A good old fashioned twenty-step puzzle-box, and a lump of knotted twine that you had to guess was meant to emulate a Gordian knot. You aren’t sure how Sans might have figured out how to tie a Gordian knot, but you figure magic must be involved. In fact, you wouldn’t be surprised if the knot had been tied together and then the ends fused into one continuation, making the entire thing more or less a mobius knot.

He glances up at you, and his eyes narrow. “how’d you get one of my jackets?”

“Blame Ellie.” you reply, offering a tiny, uncertain smile his way, “I can give it back, if… if you want.”

He seems to study you from his spot, before turning his attention onto Ellie’s perch on your shoulder. “really, ellie? stealing my stuff?”

“ _Borrowing_.” Ellie insists, fluffing up her breast feathers.

“borrowing implies permission was given.”

“It’s a lot easier,” Ellie chirps primly, “asking for forgiveness than permission, especially when someone’s being _pointlessly stubborn_.”

“Look,” you shake your head, pulling off one of the mittens, “I’ll just make due, it’s fine.”

Sans sighs and looks back down at his crossword, “no, go ahead and keep it until Snowdin. stars know ellie’ll just go snatch another.”

Ellie fluffs up more, obviously smug.

You kind of wonder how many jackets like this he _has_. But that’s beside the point.

“Hey, um…” you swallow, but feel Papyrus come up beside you, and square your shoulders. If Papyrus believes you can do it, then you have to at least try, right? “Sans, I… I wanted to apologize.”

He doesn’t look up, or acknowledge that you’ve said anything. Your nerves spike a bit, but you push forward anyway. “I should have realized that I was breaching your privacy, and I shouldn’t have pushed as far as I did. You don’t have to forgive me, or… even accept my apology, but I just… wanted to say that.”

He’s quiet for another moment, and you realize with a sinking heart that he isn’t going to answer you. Instead, you shake your head and step forward. You pick up the Rubik’s cube first.

“HM. IT SEEMS YOU ACTUALLY PUT A BIT OF EFFORT INTO THIS PUZZLE, SANS. I HAVE YET TO MASTER THE COLOR CUBE, SO IT IS SURE TO BAFFLE THE HUMAN!” Papyrus steps beyond you over toward Sans, briefly pressing a hand against your shoulder in quiet acknowledgement and support. The tiny gesture manages to make you feel a little better.

You focus down on the cube, humming to yourself as you start with the first steps -- the white cross, with the sides in the right positions. You used to always focus on white first, then work toward yellow. Twisting the cube this way and that in your hands brings back memories, sitting on a park bench with an older kid twisting his own rubik's cube and showing you the steps.

“yeah. gives you a chance to go get undyne, right?” Sans is still looking down at the crossword, and misses the brief flash of nervous uncertainty that crosses Papyrus’ face, even though you catch it out of the corner of your eye. You file away the name “Undyne” as being related to the whole ‘capture the humans’ thing even as you start twisting the white corners into their proper places, finishing the first layer. You flip the cube upside down so that the white side is now on the bottom.

“I… SUPPOSE.” Papyrus acknowledges, as you start on the corners of the second layer. He takes note of your methodical procession with the cube and seems surprised. “O-OH, WOWIE! SANS, LOOK, THE HUMAN IS MAKING REMARKABLE PROGRESS!”

Sans finally glances up as you finish the second layer. “lots of people can make progress, paps, doesn’t mean they can actually solve…” he trails off, blinking as he watches you.

You’re so focused on your task that you’re biting on your tongue, barely paying the two skeletons any mind now. This was where your memories got a bit foggy. You knew conceptually you were supposed to fix up the yellow cross, now...

You twist the front face to the right, tentatively, before nodding to yourself as you remember the steps. Even knowing that Sans is still watching you, there’s something nostalgic and calming about the little color cube.

Once you have the yellow cross, the familiar twisting motion comes to your hands to flip the corners around. You’re intensely satisfied when the yellow face is done, and turn your attention to the last couple of steps; fixing the corners, then the center sides of the final layer.

You hum to yourself again, muttering the steps under your breath as you followed them, “Corners is right towards me, front to the right, right towards me again… flip the back…” you purse your lips, your eyebrows furrowing as you stare down at the cube. “Then… right away from me, turn the front left, right towards me again… Flip the back again…” your mouth relaxes into a smile again. “Flip right… and turn the top to line up the corners.” You let out a small sound of victory when you see that you got it right. That sequence had taken you forever to memorize.

Papyrus is practically dancing as he watches you, “SHE’S SO GOOD AT PUZZLES, SANS! OH MY GOODNESS!”

“Okay, gotta move the last bits counter clockwise… so…” you smile, orienting the cube in the right way before flipping the front face and letting muscle memory guide you through the last few steps. As you flip the final face around, a sense of contentment falls over you. It’s been way too long since the last time you solved a Rubik’s cube, honestly. You toss it up and down a couple of times before twisting the faces around into O’s, just for giggles, and place it on the table again.

“...okay, maybe she is able to solve it.” Sans mutters, still staring at you as you move on.

“HOW DID YOU DO THAT?” Papyrus is visibly bouncing in place. “I’VE NEVER BEEN ABLE TO SOLVE THE COLOR CUBE!”

“It’s pretty simple, once you know the steps.” You offer a small grin, “I used to hate Rubik’s cubes, so once I found out there was a process to solve them I pretty much made sure I memorized it. So now I can show off.” You pick up the Gordian knot, testing a couple of strings to see if there’s any spot where it’s already lose. “I can show you how to do it later, if you want.”

Papyrus lets out a sound that can only really be described as a s _queal_ , dancing in place and practically glowing, and you notice Sans’ expression soften. You’re pretty sure that he still hasn’t accepted your apology (you weren’t really expecting him to. You made a pretty intense breach of privacy.) but he at least seems happy that you’re being so nice to Papyrus.

Not that you’re being nice to Papyrus just to get back onto Sans’ good side. If it happens that’s a bonus, but you’re entirely trying to be nice to Papyrus because somehow, you haven’t messed up with him yet. And he honestly seems so adorably happy by the simple offer.

You smile to yourself, a genuinely fond smile, and look down at the knot again. As such, you miss the way that Sans looks at you again.

You’re focused again, finding a little white spot on the string and holding onto the single string with the oddity. You follow it as it dips into the knot, continuing along the same string. You figure you’ll either come to an end, or come back to the same white spot, and it’ll be your indication of what to do next.

If you find an end, you work backwards to untangle it.

If you find the spot, you bite it open and _then_ untangle it.

You’re very pleased to find the end.

Ellie lets out a small chirpy laugh as you start carefully weaving the string through itself again, loosening the knot bit by bit. “Why’re you so good at puzzles?” she teases.

“I live alone in various shitty apartments and my social life is work, which also coincidentally sends me various places so I don’t have time to make a lot of friends. Also, puzzles are fun.” you joke back. “I pretty much spend most of my off days doing things like these. There’s always a system to them, you’ve just gotta figure it out to solve them.” You look down at the string and pull it loose between your fingers, your smile soft.

“It’s… easier than people.” You murmur, more quietly, so only Ellie can hear you. “I’ve yet to figure out the system for being sociable.”

“Well, you’re doing pretty okay by my measure.” she murmurs back, then picks at a loose bit of hair over your ear, preening it back into place. “Just take it slow.”

You tie the loosened string into a bow and set it next to the completed Rubik’s cube.

Sans has closed his newspaper, and is staring at the two completed puzzles as you pick up the puzzle box. There’s an odd intensity to his gaze that makes you glance up at him, but for once, you can’t place it immediately. You look down again, squashing the temptation to try and read into it again -- after last time, you think you’ll give him his space.

“So is there a key or something in here?” You ask, more to fill the silence than anything else.

“you could say that.” Sans says, slowly, and you force yourself not to overanalyze his tone. “a skeleton key, more like.”

You offer another tentative smile up at him for the sake of the pun before focusing on the box again, poking at the various buttons and knobs to see which gives and which stay immobile. You’re not quite as familiar with puzzle boxes as you are with rubik's cubes or knots, but you know the basic idea is that it’s one elaborate combination lock. You’ve just got to figure out the combination.

“Any good questions on that crossword?” you ask next, prompting Sans to still, and then open the newspaper again.

He blinks down at the page before humming. “...five letters, hint is ‘carnation location’, fourth letter is E. i can’t figure it out.”

“Lapel. L-A-P-E-L. It’s the formal term for the second buttonhole on a suit, the corsage is usually made of a carnation and varying smaller flowers.”

“...eleven letters, ‘storied wild west outlaw’.”

You count on your fingers with one hand as you mentally spell out your guess, poking at knobs on the puzzle box with the other. “...Billy the Kid, unless any of the letters conflict. There’s a lot of old westerns with him as the villain.”

He’s staring at you again, but this time you can practically see the disbelief on his face when he looks at you.

“...seven letters for provide with sustenance? starts with n.”

“Nourish.” you let out a small sound of satisfaction when one of the pieces of the puzzle box loosens up. “Am I freaking you out yet?”

“slightly.” he admits. “'specially since that last one wasn’t on the crossword puzzle.”

“I’ve been doing Sunday crosswords since I was five.” you press another button, sticking out your tongue, “It’s a great way to learn new words and trivia. After a while you start recognizing the hints. And the new vocabulary helps a bunch, too.”

“how old are you, then?”

“Tut tut,” You glance up, offering another small smile, “One never asks a lady her age.”

You press down on a final button and the puzzle box pops open in your hands, prompting you to let out a small victorious ‘hm!’ and smile. “Well, well.” you tease, pulling out the tiny bone that’s sitting in the center, then placing the puzzle box on the other side of the Rubik’s cube. “I don’t know what good this key will do, but I can see the _skeleton_ part of it.”

You toss the tiny bone toward Sans, smiling as he catches it, his eyes wide.

“So,” you shove your hands into the jacket pockets, swaying on your feet and entirely pleased. You can’t help it. Now that you’re no longer worried about freezing, you’re actually… having fun. Puzzles always put you in a good mood, especially once you’ve solved them. “What’s next?” 


	8. Snowdin Woods are Larger Than Expected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But then again, why did you expect a magic forest to be small?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got real life sponsibilities so I'm posting this an hour early. <3

The atmosphere seems to have lightened after facing Sans’ initial puzzles, with Papyrus almost bursting with excitement and generally having the time of his life. You watch with open appreciation as he bounds off ahead, casting one last uncertain glance at Sans before letting Ellie grab your attention again.

You have a great time playing the ball game. You double back and play it several times after Ellie points out that you skipped it; you stay especially once you find out that getting the red flag also nets you fifty easy gold pieces, and then ten each time afterward. It really _does_ pay to be stubborn sometimes! You finally continue through the woods, about ten minutes and several attempts later, after figuring out the trick to reliably get the red flag (be a smartass; pick up the ball); your little money pouch jangles cheerfully with almost 200 gold pieces when you leave the game behind, and you know you can come back any time you need to.

A brief encounter with self-proclaimed Dogamy and Dogaressa lands you with a brand new bloody nose and black eye, and you have to reluctantly resort to the same trick you used on Doggo to get them to pause long enough for you to catch your breath. You explain to them that you just want to pass through peacefully, and that if nothing else you _really_ want a good meal and a comfortable bed to sleep in before you entertained any more life-threatening moments, thanks. After promising, again, that you’d be sure to stop into ‘Grillby’s’ to say hi to them the same way you had done with Doggo, you’re finally allowed to continue on your way.

Sans is no longer hanging around his puzzle table when you pass by it again.

Ellie jokes about going to get some actual food for you the third time your stomach rumbles loud enough to be heard (you had let out a pitiful whine when you saw the spaghetti frozen to the plate and the defunct microwave) and your only response is a question as to how far it still is until Snowdin. You’ve got the items from the spider bakesale in your bag but you figure you need an actual meal, not a snack and a drink. You’re running on your _exceptionally healthy_ three-strips-of-day-old-bacon breakfast, a slice of pie, and two and a half bottles of water. You need _actual sustenance_.

You meet up with Papyrus and Sans again at the next puzzles, and keep up a running conversation (mostly with Papyrus, though you’re happy to note that Sans seems to be joining in on his own a bit more again, too) as you poke around to figure out the tricks to the puzzles themselves. After a while, you even start dropping your own occasional jokes and puns, when the atmosphere has relaxed enough that you feel less like a mouse running a maze and more like someone humoring the creators of an elaborate obstacle course.

The switch puzzles are pretty simple, in practice. The only one you have any actual trouble with is the more elaborate one that Papyrus has styled in the shape of his face, which is set on a frozen area with a thick layer of ice on the top of the ground. You don’t even have issues with it in terms of _solving_ it, it’s just the simple matter that you have to skate to each X to change them into Os, and your hiking boots are not exactly made for low-friction surfaces.

You scoop up a bit of snow the third time you fall, packing it into a snowball when Sans makes a dry quip about you seeming to be awfully gullible, considering you’re falling for just about anything. You miss him, partially on purpose (your aim has always been terrible, and he would have dodged it anyway), but manage to smack Papyrus in the face with the snowball. It sends his head spinning -- literally. You cover your mouth and choke on your laughter as Papyrus yelps and complains that he prefers to keep moving forward, he can’t do that if his head is backwards.

Ellie doesn’t bother hiding how hilarious she thinks all of your flailing about is. She’s almost constantly trilling out little giggles as she hovers after you, and the fourth time you fall on your ass (you think your tailbone must be bruised by this point) she nearly falls out of the sky, she’s laughing so hard. You’re trying to be patient, really you are, but you’re still incredibly satisfied when you finally finish off the puzzle and get semi-solid snow under your feet again. Traction! Sweet traction!

Sans still seems quietly guarded around you, but you refuse to let your guilt prompt you into pushing. At some point you debate pulling out your MP3 player, but you’ve yet to see any electrical outlets down here, except the ones in Toriel’s home, and you don’t want to run out of power on it before you find a place to charge it again. Instead, you start singing some of your favorite songs to yourself, as best as you can remember them.

This _does_ , unfortunately, bring Ellie’s attention to the fact you can sing. You spend about seven minutes straight singing “The Song That Never Ends” together, after she gets the hang of it. Because of reasons. It offers a stupidly hilarious background noise while Papyrus tries to make sense of the instructions for the puzzle he seems to have gotten from someone else, and you wind up cheering when you hear Sans start humming it under his breath. _Victory_.

You sing out an empathetic ‘too bad’ sound effect when the puzzle glitches into an easy solution, though you’re secretly kind of glad for it. The list of instructions Papyrus had read out to you had sounded exceedingly complicated. Watching him and Sans turn and leave without a word after it malfunctions gives you a chance to catch your breath. You gingerly press at the swollen skin around your eye, but manage to only react with a sharp inhale.

Nonetheless, you have an absolute _blast_ with Lesser Dog. You’re pretty sure you gave him an altogether irresponsible amount of petting, considering his neck stretched out like a slinky with every enthusiastic scratch and pet you gave him. It made keeping the doggy kisses away from your face downright impossible, but something about the entire situation was _hilarious_ to you. If there’s only one thing that you have to be thankful for about the situation, it’s that when he slathers one obscenely slobbery lick across the length of your face, it doesn’t get into your mouth or eyes. Your nose is another story, but after two or three sneezes you’re pretty sure you got most of it out.

Ellie tugs you along a bend in the path, saying she thinks you’ll appreciate what she wants to show you, and you spend a few nearly hysterical seconds laughing at the two snow sculptures standing out on an outcropping of rock near a sheer drop off. One is a life-sized emulation of Papyrus, with more upper body musculature than David Hasselhoff on Baywatch. The other, marked ‘Sans’, is just… a lump. Literally, a weirdly shaped lump of piled up snow.

It’s adorably and hilariously fitting.

When you finally manage to get control of your laughter again, your cheeks hurt from smiling and the pressure of your cheeks against your swollen eye.

“I swear,” you mumble to Ellie, “I _sincerely_ want to be friends with these two. And I’m honestly no good with making friends.”

“Oh shut up,” she lightly smacks the side of your head with a wing, rolling her eyes from her perch on your shoulder. “You’re doing fine. You’re making friends left and right.”

“I’m making _friendly acquaintances_ left and right,” you correct. “I want to be _legitimate friends_ with these two. Somehow. There’s a difference.”

“Well, bluh.” she clicks her beak together in a sound of disapproval. “I think you’re pretty damn close to already being Papyrus’ friend. And Sans still might be a bit guarded but I _know_ he doesn’t hate you.”

You shrug, taking a deep breath and steadying yourself.

“Well, que sera, sera. What will be, will be.” you announce, more to yourself than to Ellie. You turn back toward the path up to the next puzzle, ignoring the gnawing feeling of hunger in your stomach. You’ve already gotten outside confirmation that you’re pretty close to Snowdin Town.

It doesn’t stop you from letting out an annoyed groan when you see the expanse of ice marked with Xs in front of you. Your tailbone is _already_ throbbing.

You take a moment to eye the spikes blocking off the exit, casting your eyes between the puzzle in front of you and the spikes themselves, trying to judge if it was worth it to do the puzzle the way it was intended. You decide for the sake of your tailbone that you’re going to at least _try_ to get past the spikes in another fashion.

You walk around the ice puzzle, carefully hugging the edge and walking over to the spikes themselves. They’re up halfway above your knee, but you think if you’re careful, you might be able to…

You swing one leg over them, pulling your spine up with your shoulders as far as you can, and manage to get your foot on solid ground on the other side. Lifting your other leg up to almost parallel to the ground, you let your weight teeter onto the safe side, and flop down into the snow on the other side, sighing in relief.

“not up for any more puzzles?” You hear Sans ask, but you don’t open your eyes or move from your spot in the snow.

“I’m just an actually semi-decent ice skater when I have actual skates.” you lift one of your feet from the snow to emphasise your point, before letting it drop again. “And I wanted to not fall on my ass again.”

You open one eye when you hear him snort, arching an eyebrow from your spot in the snow. From your perspective he’s standing upside down over you. He gestures down at where you’re laying, spread-eagled, across the ground.

“didn’t you _just_ fall on your ass, though?” he asks. You quirk a smile at the slight relaxation of his tone. He’s not entirely relaxed around you, but he may never be. You’re happy to accept anything at this point.

“No, this was a deliberate flop. There’s a difference between flopping and falling directly on one’s tailbone, you see.” You raise one mittened hand to gesture expansively at the rest of your boneless limbs in the snow. “And also a difference between falling in soft cushioning snowbank versus falling on hard unforgiving ice.”

“well, I’ll give you that.” he shrugs, “you’re almost to snowdin, though, so…”

“Yeah, yeah, give me a minute.” you stick out your tongue up at him, to make the grump a tease, and are almost indecently pleased when he huffs one more laugh before turning to leave again. You still really like his laugh -- probably even moreso now that you’ve seemed to earn a chance to hear it again.

The thought makes you pause.

“What color are my cheeks right now, Ellie?” You ask, after a few more seconds laying in the snow, once you’re relatively certain he’s actually gone.

“Red as Hotland. Why?”

“Is it bad that I’m not sure it’s all from the cold?”

“...bad how?” the honest confusion and concern in her voice makes you pause, before you shake your head, remembering. She’s a monster. She might not even understand what your red cheeks mean. In fact, there's logically no reason to think she'd know. If these monsters have been locked underground long enough for humanity to outright _forget_ about them, then most of them probably have never even seen a human before you. Plus, you don't think you want to admit you might be blushing.

“...nevermind.” you hum, pushing up from the snow again, “Come on, we’re almost to Snowdin.”

“Okay.” she trills, still sounding uncertain, but she lands on your shoulder as you stand up again. “There’s just one more path I saw before that I kinda wanna check out, if you’re up for it. I’ve not had much chance to explore Snowdin Woods when there wasn’t a blizzard happening.”

You hum a soft affirmative and push through the heavy fall of vines in the path in front of you. You're even more covered in snow as you pass through them, and there's a mound of it clinging to your hair when you finally get free. You have to take a moment to shake it out of your hair, shivering.

Once you’re through, you can see the soft glow of a winter wonderland town in the distance, and you have to believe that must be Snowdin, because it’s the first thing you’ve seen in these woods that isn’t barren trees or puzzles. Your stomach growls again, perhaps in anticipation of being somewhere that might have actual food.

You can guess what path Ellie is talking about, since it opens up to your right, before the bridge that pretty clearly leads into town. You spare one last reluctant glance toward the town before reasoning that you’re still going to wind up getting there anyway, barring any unfortunate event. You were just going to take a look around for Ellie’s sake.

The path leads out onto a ledge that drops off into a deeper cavern below, and you’re very careful not to get near the edge. You’re not interested in falling off of two high ledges in one day.

Following the ledge along, you find a doorway into a lower part of the mountain, and it opens when you push it. A longer hallway meets your gaze, the shadows intense and tinted blue. You shove a rock into the bottom of the door to make sure it doesn’t close on you. Maybe you’re just being paranoid, but you don’t care.

Walking down the hallway leads you to a door that will not budge. You glance at Ellie and get a small nod -- she’s satisfied.

“Food time?” You ask, hopefully.

She trills in amusement, before nodding. “Food time. You’re gonna love Grillby’s.”

“Everyone’s been talking it up, so I’m guessing it’s gotta be the best restaurant in Snowdin.”

“Try the _only restaurant_ in Snowdin. It’s still fantastic, but it is kind of the only option without going to Hotland.”

“Well, I’m starving. At this point I’m honestly considering going back for that frozen spaghetti. I’m sure Grillby’s will be manna from heaven at this point.”

You push your hands into the pockets of the jacket and walk back out into the snow, only relaxing once you’re past the door, and only relaxing fully once you’re back in sight of Snowdin town.

Passing by a snow poff that snores is surprisingly not that high on your surreal-o-meter anymore. You’re guessing there’s probably another of the vaunted ‘Dog Squad’ in there, and decide to sneak around it as quietly as possible. You reach the bridge before you exhale again.

You wave when you sight the skeleton brothers on the other side of the bridge, but they don’t seem to see you, since they don’t wave back.

You’re halfway across the bridge when that thought is dismissed. They’re watching your progress, but they’re also blocking the other end of the bridge. You feel a tremor of unease.

“...Ellie,” you mumble, before they can get the chance to overhear you, “You’re one of the only monsters I’ve never been afraid is going to kill me in this entire experience, so…” You swallow heavily against the lump in your throat, “Maybe this is selfish but if I die I want _you_ to take my soul and go to the surface. I don’t want anyone to get hurt… and I have the bad feeling that if the monsters break the Barrier by force, a _lot_ of people are going to get hurt.”

She fluffs her feathers, her own nervous unease being portrayed perfectly, and nuzzles closer to your jawline. “Okay, but... I’d really prefer if you didn’t die.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, “me too.”

You finally step into conversational range with the two skeletons and stop, tilting your head in concern toward the two. Neither of them seem able to keep eye contact with you.

“...hey… guys?” You clench your hands in the jacket pockets. “What’s going on?”

Papyrus draws himself up into another pose, but what you can see of his face tells a different story. His pose says confidence. His expression says reluctance.

“HUMAN, I’M AFRAID I _MUST_ CAPTURE YOU. THUS, THIS IS YOUR FINAL AND MOST DANGEROUS CHALLENGE.” he announces, pressing a button on a remote. All around you on either side of the bridge, weapons and other dangerous items loom. There’s a cannon pointed directly at you, and you’re almost certain your anxiety is starting to show on your face again.

“THIS GAUNTLET OF DEADLY TERROR WILL FULLY ACTIVATE ONCE I SAY THE WORD.” He continues, “CANNONS WILL FIRE, SPIKES WILL SWING, BLADES WILL SLICE AND EVERY PART WILL SWING VIOLENTLY UP AND DOWN. ONLY THE TINIEST CHANCE OF VICTORY FOR YOU WILL REMAIN.”

You don’t detect a smidgen of his usual bravado, and you step backwards almost on reflex, grabbing hold of the rope on either side of the bridge when your movement sends the bridge swaying under you. You… you think he might be serious about this one. He doesn’t seem like he wants to do it, but you think… he _might_ , anyway.

“P-Papyrus, come on,” you squeak, “I… this isn’t funny. I thought…”

You glance frantically at Sans, but he won’t even meet your eyes. Your eyes flick back to Papyrus -- if anyone’s going to call this off, it’s him. Your voice is getting louder, more frantic. “Please don’t do this, I-- we were having fun-- all the puzzles, a-and-- and the ongoing conversation…” You swallow heavily again, biting your lip and trailing off, your breathing unsteady again.

You think… you might be actually about to die. The thought terrifies you.

“PREPARE YOURSELF, HUMAN. YOUR STUBBORNNESS AND BRAVERY HAS BROUGHT YOU THIS FAR.” He locks eyes with you, and you feel a moment of clarity as you understand, before he presses the button.

Ellie leaps from your shoulder at the last possible second, but you still feel her presence disappear as she flies to her own safety.

You let out a shriek as the cannon fires, missing you by a hair as you throw yourself backward. You know this is supposed to be some sort of trial, you _know_ that he… his last statement _had_ to have been an encouragement, Papyrus was always encouraging, he always believed in you. And you had told him you weren’t brave.

He was trying to give you an opportunity to be brave.

Which, in theory, you appreciated. But in practice you were even more _fucking terrified_.

You scramble back along the bridge to past the point where any of the ‘gauntlet of deadly terror’ can reach you, dropping to your knees and clinging to the ropes as though they were a lifeline. Your heart is hammering inside your chest and you’re sure if you hadn’t been cried dry already today you’d be bawling again. You’re curled up as tightly as you can go without letting go of the ropes, trembling like a leaf from head to toe, your eyes screwed tightly shut. You’re so scared you can’t _breathe_.

“paps-- paps _shut it off_.” You hear Sans finally speak, his voice just a touch alarmed as he snaps the order, but everything sounds kind of echoey to you, like it’s coming from the end of a tunnel. The sounds of everything swinging around stops, then pull away. You feel the bridge under your feet shudder with heavy steps, and you let out a hysterical wheeze of terrified laughter when you feel bony hands grab your shoulder and cheek, holding you steady.

“hey--” you hear Sans’ voice, muffled, like through a layer of cotton. “hey, look at me.”

You wheeze again.

“come on, look at me,” he prods again, pressing his thumb against your cheekbone until your eyes crack open. You vaguely hear him curse, but it’s hard to focus on him. He looks kind of fuzzy around the edges.

(He’s staring at you with open concern, but your eyes are unfocused, and it’s disorienting.)

“breathe, breathe with me now, okay? in… and out…” He presses his face closer until he can press his forehead to yours, and it forces you to keep your eyes on his. You struggle to follow his directions, your own breathing inching down to match his one breath at a time. “nice and slow. you’re okay. you’re okay, i’ve gotcha.”

You shudder violently and your breathing hitches again, but he tightens his hold on your shoulder and rubs small circles with his thumb against your cheek. You realize, kind of distantly, that you seem to be having a panic attack.

Not only that, but Sans recognized it immediately, and is easing you down from it.

Just that knowledge helps. You cough, leaning heavily into him, and start matching his breathing a bit more easily. You mentally count to ten, over and over again, until your heart rate eases.

“I…” you finally hiccup in a watery voice, between shaky breaths, “...I think I preferred the puzzles.”

“...yeah.” he mutters, gently pulling you to your feet again. His hands find yours and massage against your knuckles until you finally release your death grip on the rope, one hand at a time. “i… didn’t expect paps to actually use this one. i… dunno what got into him.”

You let out one more weak giggle, bringing a hand up to your face. “I… can we maybe… put a pin in this conversation? I… really just want to get something to eat and then find a place to pass out. For like… at least a day.”

He’s still holding onto your hands as he walks backwards along the bridge again, tugging you along after him. You’re obscenely grateful to have something directing you right now. When you’re finally back on solid ground, you practically collapse, and both he and Papyrus catch you.

You drag your hand down your face and laugh again, a soft, hiccupy sound. You have so much buzzing energy in you right now that you’re pretty sure if you don’t laugh, you’re going to scream.

Papyrus is furiously babbling apologies at you, until you press your face into his scarf and cling and shake your head against his bony shoulder. You’re not mad at him -- hell, you kind of understood what he was doing. You just… sincerely can _not_ deal with anything else right now.

You’ve nearly died… this was either the fourth or the fifth time today, depending on if you wanted to count Sans’ scaring you half to death earlier. You’re overwhelmed. You’re pretty sure you jettisoned past overwhelmed when you first fell. Over-overwhelmed.

“...come on,” Sans has his hand on your elbow, “we’ll get grillby’s, my treat. and you can crash on our couch if you want. no more surprises. no more pressure. just good food and a good sleep for you.”

You grab his hand and squeeze it in thanks, following him with unsteady steps. At this point, nothing sounds better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alt chapter title: everything is happy happy joy-joy until the shit hits the fan


	9. Three AM Is Totally An Acceptable Time For Heart To Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (sneak posts in the middle of the night)
> 
> (actually just accidentally hit the post button)
> 
> (I'm trash)

You’re drifting somewhere between sleeping and awake, sprawled across the skeleton brothers’ couch and listening to them teasing each other in their kitchen. After getting a nice simple burger at Grillby’s and enjoying the soft ambience of a busy restaurant, you’d slipped into this in-between state and hadn’t really complained when Papyrus scooped you up like a baby and carried you out of the booth again. Ellie had directed them in helping get the jacket off, and then your sweatshirt, before they had tucked you into a quilt that smelled like woodsmoke and pine needles. She’d then snagged your sweatshirt and bundled it up on top of the couch near you, nesting down in it with a soft sigh.

You had let your eyes close about twenty minutes before. It’s only when the sounds of the brothers passing through the living room toward the stairs reach your ears that you finally allow yourself to drift into a proper sleep.

Even as you slip into dreamland, you almost automatically mentally review your day. Seven am ‘breakfast’, meeting up for the hike-tour by eight… you linger, just for a few moments longer, on the child you had striven to help save. It couldn’t really be stretching the truth to say that they were the reason you were down here, could it? Technically, you fell because they were too damn close to the edge and you had to do _something._  You don’t _blame_ them, per say, that implies that you harbor negative feelings about the entire thing, but it’s… _reasonable_ to say that they were the cause to the effect of your falling. And kind of coincidentally the overall cause to the fact you’ve nearly died close to five times today.

It tugs at your thoughts, even as you slip deeper into your subconscious. Why did you take notice of them? You know for a fact you’ve never seen them before, and yet your mind can call up their features with stunning clarity, as though familiarity had etched the image in stone. The droopy, sleepy features, the rounded jawline. The messy, unevenly cut hair that fell in loose tangles around their face. The way their eyes had widened when they reached for you, the second your foot failed to meet ground beneath it.

The spark of guilt in the back of their gaze. A flicker, there and gone. As though they blamed themself for your new predicament.

You can call it up with perfect clarity.

Your mind skips, like a record, jumping to a later point after you had woken up -- a bit beyond noon. One of the first things that Flowey had said to you.

_“Oh, golly, sorry! I thought you were someone else!”_

You skip back to the child again. The oddly expectant look on their face, as they waited for the tour to move on. Like they knew what they were going to do.

You attempt to hold onto the thought, but your subconscious pulls it out of reach like water breaking upon the sand, pulling back out to sea. Instead, your mind latches back onto that child, and you realize sort of distantly that you’ve dipped into an actual dream, now. You can’t control your thoughts like this.

The dream-child, then, is ushered away from the edge by the startled tour group. You watch the entire spectacle, both as though you’re observing from the ceiling and from the perspective of the child themself. You watch as they’re pulled away, you watch as their eyes remain locked on the edge where you had fallen. Their hand rubs a bit at their arm, where you had shoved them with your last attempt to protect them.

The dream flickers, skipping ahead. The sun travels across the sky as they’re left sitting quietly at the tour company’s meeting point. They look incredibly small to you, as you watch police sweep around them, watch officers cordon off the mountain, watch the tour guide furiously argue that everyone signed waivers at the beginning of the tour, he knew how dangerous the damn mountain was and everyone had signed agreements that _they_ also knew, how the _fuck_ could he be held liable?

You watch them write on a notebook when one police officer asks them a few questions. _She was trying to save me from falling. I got too close to the edge. I don’t know her name. I don’t know why she noticed me._

_Can I stay? I want to know if she’s alright._

_I owe her thanks… and an apology._

Time passes. The sun is high in the sky by the time you finally see them left alone for a moment and they take that moment to wrap their arms around their legs. You see them staring upward toward the mountain again. You estimate that this must be about the time that you woke up. There’s a sense of defeat to their pose, tired and relieved and so complicated that you’re certain this just has to be your brain providing you with a vividly lucid dream.

The dream blurs away around you, into faded blackness as the child closes their eyes. You see them press a hand against the center of their breastbone, and feel your own sense of self do the same within the dream. It’s the spot where your soul always appears. You can even feel the way your soul shifts in response to your hand’s proximity, a soft pulsing warmth that you’d never been aware of before today.

It’s such a quiet and focused movement, and you wonder why your mind would have the child do it. Why would they focus on that spot? Why, when you know now that’s where the soul appears?

**_I’ll keep tabs on her. If it gets bad enough, we can try again, but as long as she’s okay… will you please stay up here?_ **

The voice whispers from all around you, and you’re certain it’s directed toward the child.

**_She went to a lot of effort to keep you safe, you know? And I... I worry about you._ **

The child looks so _tired_ , your heart aches from it.

**_You really need the time to heal, Frisk. As long as you can, as long as she’s okay, as long as we don’t have to… please take that time. We’ll know soon enough what’s happened._ **

The child raises their hands, pulling the one away from their breastbone to sign into the darkness around you both. You hear their words with the same clarity that you heard from the whispered voice. _The rescue crews won’t go down there, they know it’s too dangerous. She won’t be able to get out without dying or killing someone..._

**_Maybe._** The whisper-voice returns, cutting them off gently. **_But no matter what, she’s still alive right now. I would have felt it if she’d died already. The monsters would have felt it. They would’ve grabbed her soul already -- she’s still_ _alive_ _. And I can’t feel any LV in her resonance. As long as she stays alive, you can heal. And for your sake, I hope she has enough sense to find somewhere safe and __stay_ _there._**

The quiet intensity increases. You shiver, feeling more and more that you’re not just imagining this, and more and more feeling that you’re _not supposed to_ be seeing this. This doesn’t feel like the sort of insanity that you usually get in your dreams, this feels _alive_ and _conscious_ and…

And it’s aware of you.

All at once, the dream ends. Your eyes snap open into the darkness of the skeleton brother’s living room, to the sounds of Ellie letting out little chirps in her sleep and the sounds of light snoring from upstairs (it’s followed by soft ‘nyeheheh’s so you assume it’s from Papyrus). Your heart is hammering in your chest and your soul flutters with it, safe within the confines of your center. You’re left quietly trembling in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling and so, _so_ confused.

The dream is already fading, hazy at the edges even as you struggle to hold onto it.

You sit up, and your neck complains about having been in the same position (propped up by the arm of the couch) for a few hours. You rub circles into the muscles where your shoulder blades meet for a moment with one hand, pressing your fingers into the dips on either side of your spine like you’re searching for a magical button that will make the pain cease.

You wrap the quilt around your shoulders while continuing your semi-massage, letting out a soft sigh. It’s been a long while since you had a dream that literally unnerved you enough to wake you from a dead sleep, and you can already tell that you’re not going to get much more sleep tonight.

_Usually_ when you get insomnia you’d go look at the stars, but it strikes you that that isn’t an option. There’s no stars down here to look at, even though you could probably turn your face ‘skyward’ and close your eyes and see them as vividly as if you were still up top. You briefly debate going into the kitchen and pulling out your phone to play Candy Crush in order to pass the time, but decide against it. Maybe you’ll go sit outside anyway, even though there’s no sky… you can at least go look at the Christmas tree.

You tighten your grip on the quilt, standing slowly and trailing it off of the couch as you make your way to the front door. You only let out another breath when you’re sitting out on the front stoop, letting your shoulders sag. Somehow, even the simple act of sitting outside helps, even though a part of you whispers that _it’s not the same_.

The chill air is soothing against your sweaty cheeks. You tug the quilt closer anyway, knowing that soon enough you’ll be feeling the cold. The faint but colorful glow of the Christmas tree in the center of town makes you smile, just looking at the way that the little fairy lights fight off the darkness around it. You’re not sure how long you sit there, soaking in the quiet and breathing the crisp air.

The stoop creaks beside you, and a steaming mug appears in your field of vision, held by bony fingers. You blink your way out of a contented daze, focusing on it for a few seconds before it truly registers what you’re seeing. You swing your gaze up to follow the arm even as your hands automatically lift to take the cup.

Sans is standing on the stoop beside you, his gaze also turned out toward the Christmas tree. He has another mug in his other hand, also steaming.

"insomnia?” he asks softly, still not looking at you. You glance back down at the mug and realize that he must have made hot cocoa. When you take a sip, you find that it’s delicious.

You make a noncommittal sound. “Nightmare.” you admit, returning your gaze to the Christmas tree. “Nothing that stuck with me, but enough to wake me up.”

You feel the wood underneath you creak as he sits down, clad in just shorts and a short sleeved t-shirt. You’re freezing just looking at him, but he doesn’t seem phased. Maybe he doesn’t feel cold like you do? Maybe he’s doing some kind of magic to keep warm? Maybe it doesn’t matter.

The silence between you isn’t entirely comfortable, but you don’t speak up about it. It’s his house -- he’s allowed to be wherever. You’re actually kind of worried you might be interrupting some sort of insomnia coping thing that _he_ does.

“i'm not…” he finally breaks the silence. “...good at this.”

“This?” you echo, certain that your clueless confusion is evident in your voice.

“t... talking about myself. serious conversations…? ...to a lesser extent, opening up to people in general.”

You huff out one short breath of a laugh, taking a sip, not looking up. “Me neither. You… don’t have to, you know.”

“well, i… i at least ought to accept your apology, right?” He lets out his own small laugh, and you can hear the strain in it. “you didn’t mean to. and it’s… not fair of me to hold a grudge about something you actually regret.”

“I told you,” you tighten your fingers around the cup, holding onto the warmth. “You don’t have to forgive me or even accept my apology. That’s your choice.”

“i know i don’t _have_ to.” his voice has softened, and when you sneak a glance at him out of the corner of your eye, he’s doing the same to you. You both let out impulsive little giggles when you realize, before he takes a breath to compose himself again. “i want to.”

You’re pretty sure you can _feel_ your soul glowing within the confines of your chest.

“we’ve put you through… basically hell.” he laughs again, a bit awkwardly, “and through it all, you just… you never seemed like you blamed us. an’ paps really likes you. s’really the least i can do to make amends…”

You smile down at your cup again, blaming the cold for your burning cheeks. “Not going to lie, I was so certain that I messed up my chance to make _friends_ down here. I… thought it was going to mess up my chance to befriend Papyrus, too. He really cares about you.”

“hm?” he tilts his head, and you glance up at him.

“He’s also a lot more perceptive than you or I’m sure anyone else gives him credit for.” you quirk your mouth up into a tight smile. “He knew something’d happened.”

“he did? well i'll be damned.”

“Mhm. He knew you were upset and… he talked me into apologizing. I would've been too chicken otherwise.”

You see his soft smile in the corner of your eyes. “heh, yeah… he's really great.”

“He's really something special.” you agree, your own voice soft and fond. A quiet falls over you both again, but this time it's a lot more content, until he breaks it once more

“...i… actually came out here to…” he's ducked his head again.

“Don't.” you interrupt without a second thought. He looks up in surprise. “Whatever you're thinking of doing, you're hesitating about it. I don't want you to feel like you have to do anything with me. If you want to talk about anything then I'll be here to listen... but it's your choice. Sating my curiosity is not worth making yourself uncomfortable.”

He's still staring at you with a quiet intensity. You look up to meet his eyes, managing to hold his gaze-- this is one thing you’re willing to stand your ground for.

“I mean it.” you say softly, “I pushed too far before. I don’t want you to _ever_ feel pressured to talk about something to me, okay? I’ll listen but I… I don’t _expect_ anything.” you reach over to grab his wrist, a light hold, for emphasis. “I want to _deserve_ to be your friend.”

“you're… somethin’ else.” He murmurs, his mouth curving into a softer smile. Your heart stutters at the sight of it. It feels like a rarity, like that smile doesn’t see the light of day (figuratively) very often. His hand slides out of your hold before snagging yours, squeezing slightly. “listen… if i’m gonna be _your_ friend, i've… gotta try and trust that, right?”

“You don’t _gotta_ do anything.” You murmur, but you’re smiling.

“well, then i  _wanna_.” he leans over to bump his bony shoulder against yours. “even if i’m hesitating, okay? trust has to be given, but that includes the person doing the giving.”

“It’s also gotta be earned.” Your voice is soft, and you duck your head down to stare into your half-empty mug of cocoa. “Do you really think I’ve earned it?”

“you can start earning it.” he says, firmly. “we can… start small. little things. i can tell you something, and you can tell me something in return. sound good?”

“Well… okay,” you offer an unsure laugh, “But I don’t know how interesting the sort of things I’ll have to say are.”

“i’ll be the judge of that.” He grins, before leaning back on his hands, staring out at the Christmas tree again. There’s something soothing about the chill air around you, even though you notice he seems to be almost radiating heat of his own.

“so.” he finally starts. “to start with, i work like… four jobs.”

You can’t help the disbelieving startle, turning your face to look up at him. “Really?”

“mhm. three sentry positions and a personal job for the king.”

“No wonder you seem so tired.” you murmur, “You’d have to be in four places at once…” Which, theoretically, wouldn’t be so bad with his apparent ability to _teleport_ , but still. You shake your head, “I could barely find time to relax and go to the bar every once in awhile with _one_ job… ”

“what do you do?” he asks, and sounds genuinely interested. You blink, surprised.

“Oh, uh… I work… or, worked? I don’t know what tense to use, since I’m apparently stuck down here…? I worked in retail, this big chain of stores spanning most of the country. I sort of got sent from store to store, usually ones with a department that was being overwhelmed with their workload and needed help getting things back under control. I stayed working at one store for a few months, then got sent to the next one… management at my first store noticed that I had a weirdly efficient stubbornness when my original department nearly fell apart at the seams? It… meant a lot of cheap apartments.”

He tilts his head, “so you just… hopped from place to place?”

“Mhm.” you nod, “I started about four years ago, pretty much across the country from here.”

“don’t you miss your family?”

You duck your head, laughing sadly. “Every damn day. I phoned my parents pretty much an hour before I fell, but…” you trail off. You’re not sure you want to admit that you had felt a searing pang of pure, unadulterated _envy_ eavesdropping on him and Papyrus earlier (earlier? yesterday? God, you’re exhausted, but not _sleepy_ and it _sucks_ ).

“i’m sorry,” his voice has softened. “i’m not sure i’d be able to do anything at all if i couldn’t see paps every day.”

“He does seem rather like a battery.” you give a short (slightly watery) laugh. “Lots of energy, and keeping everyone else around him moving too.”

He gives a soft snort, and you feel inordinately pleased.

From there, you’re not sure where the time goes. The underground is lightening around you by the time the conversation wanes. You’ve talked about everything from favorite colors (you’re exceedingly fond of lilac and cornflower blue; he’s got a particular fondness for cyan himself; you _both_ detest goldenrod yellow now) to favorite foods (“Most kinds of pasta… and anything chocolate.” “y ou’ll get along im _pasta_ bly well with paps. ” “ _Ha ha_ , and you, Mr. Funny Bone?” “g rillby’s. ” “What, that’s _it?_ ”). You drained your cup of hot cocoa and had barely blinked before he had flickered out of sight, returning with a second one for you.

You stopped feeling the tip of your nose somewhere along the line, but you feel so… _content_ that you don’t think much of it. By the time that the snow looks less blue and more silvery white again, you’re yawning and swaying in your seat. You feel him reach over and scoop you up, and barely manage a half-hearted protest that you can _walk,_ you’re not a baby, before the heat he’s radiating and the soothing heat of the hot cocoa in your gut and the effects of the insomnia wearing off hits you and you find yourself snuggling down into his arms.

You don’t dream. You wake up several hours later, curled up on the couch again, the house noticeably silent around you.

With a soft sound of dissatisfaction, you roll over onto your other side, pull the quilt tighter around yourself, and close your eyes again.


	10. Shopping Simulator 2kXX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shit, lets go shopping

You’re forced to get out of ‘bed’ when your stomach rumbles, and grimace as you drag yourself over to the kitchen to regain some semblance of cleanliness. Your hair is flying in every possible direction, and your bangs are falling in uncontrollable waves into your eyes -- the one of which is still slightly swollen, though definitely not as bad as you thought it would be. You have to drag a step-stool out from underneath one of the cabinets to even reach the ridiculously tall sink, but you refuse to question why the damn thing is so tall. You feel like death warmed over and you’re sure you don’t look much better -- questioning things right after waking up is for people who actually have their brains functioning at this time of day. 

It takes you several minutes of scrubbing at your cheeks before you start to feel anywhere near human again, and you scrub your teeth with one finger in a sad emulation of brushing your teeth. Wetting your fingers, you run them through your hair to try and make it  _ behave _ , before staring at yourself in the slightly warped but clearly polished reflection of the sink for a few bleary seconds. You stick out your tongue at yourself, making faces into the (chrome? Nickel?) metal of the basin. You would probably be a lot happier if life could be lived without waking up, to be honest.

You’ve really gotten too accustomed to staying on your own. You feel kind of like it should bother you that you were very clearly left alone in someone else’s house (even Ellie seems to have fucked off somewhere, notes your still half-conscious mind, none of your usual mental censors firing) but you’re proceeding as though it’s the most natural thing in the world to go through your morning routine in an unfamiliar living space.

Maybe because it is. You pause and give the thought a semi-thorough weighing, before shrugging and going back to raiding the fridge. If they didn’t want you making your own breakfast out of their food they would have woken you and told you to scram, right?

Besides, you’ll pay them back. Somehow. Right now you just need food to assist you in waking the fuck up.

Is there coffee? You squint around the kitchen and sigh when you fail to see a coffee maker.

Oh well. Cold pasta has always served you well for breakfast, whenever you had leftovers. You pick the container that looks the most promising and find a fork to start wolfing it down. It's a little rubbery, and you’re not sure if that’s pepper, or glitter, but you don’t care; it’s edible. 

You think of the small pouch of gold that you accumulated from (cough) cheating at (cough cough) the Ball game, and rationalize that if you’re going to be stuck down here for any kind of duration, you’d better get a legitimate way to earn money and fast.

“I need a new job.” you yawn around a mouthful of cold spaghetti, into the silence of the house around you, and you can’t shake how weird it is to say that. You’ve been at the same job for the last four years (figuratively speaking) and though it’s put you through plenty of stress and kind of cut you off from a lot of your immediate relationships, you still basically adored it. You loved working in a customer service environment, you loved being able to help people and even just brightening their day by  _ smiling at them _ when things were going wrong. And you loved knowing that your efforts made a  _ difference _ .

Plus… it would take some getting used to, to really comprehend that… you might legitimately be stuck down here. No more city hopping. No more moving from place to place, no more... never being in the same town at the end of the year.

You’re suddenly struck by the fact that you’ll need more than a job if you’re going to be stuck down here. You’re going to need an actual place to  _ stay _ . Like, a  _ more permanent  _ place than any of your previously shitty apartments. A longer-than-four-months place to stay.

You’re… not sure whether that thought makes you excited or terrified. So, oddly, it fits right in with most of the rest of your thoughts.

You know you’ll get twitchy before too long -- you’re no good being stuck in one place after four years of barely considering anywhere ‘home’. But at this point, you realize you might not have much of a choice.

You take a few extra moments to attempt and straighten out your clothes before tossing the container into the sink (basketball style -- you’ll really have to ask why it’s so damn tall eventually) and walking back out into the living room. You've started from scratch plenty of times, you'll just have to add “new job” to pretty near the top of the list. First matter of business has to be getting a change of clothes, though, you feel  _ incredibly _ grody and have nothing to change into.

Right. First stop, the store. Your boots will serve you fine but you need more than just a cotton long sleeved shirt with a Shakespeare quote on it and a dirty pair of jeans to move forward with the apparent changes in your life. Even with your ratty and well worn sweatshirt, you're just not built for snow.

You tug a few loose downy feathers out of your bundled up sweatshirt and snort fondly. You're pretty sure that as soon as you get something nicer for yourself, you'll give this precious old thing to Ellie. She had certainly seemed to like using it as a nest last night.

You tug it on over your head again, shaking the hood off and running your hands through your hair one more time before squaring your shoulders, nodding to yourself. To do list: clothes, job, food. Potentially figuring out a place to stay that isn’t mooching off of someone? And ideally maybe sparing a bit of time to go out to the Ball game again just in case the job search doesn’t pan out. 

(You vaguely remember seeing an Inn in town -- if nothing else that can be a temporary non-mooch-y place to stay.)

It’s almost kind of soothing, stepping out into the quiet bustle of town on your own. You’re not complaining about having Ellie around, by any means, but you’ve grown far more accustomed to proceeding with your life on your own terms, and yesterday had been rather…  _ busy _ for your tastes. You’re well out of practice with lengthened interactions with people without your alone time to recharge.

You push your hands into your pockets, making sure you still have your little pouch of gold, and turn your feet toward the shop. The cheerful calls of various monsters in town greeting you fills you with a comfortable warmth; you nod toward several of the bunny inhabitants, who titter and smile back toward you. “Morning!” one of the grizzly bear locals calls out toward you, raising a clawed hand to wave, and you can’t entirely help the cheerful laugh that bubbles from your throat. “Morning!” you call back, pulling one hand free to wave back. You dodge your way through a trio of kids, two of whom throwing snowballs at each other, returning a toothy grin granted toward you by the third, small, armless dinosaur-like monster child who’s also having fun dodging the snowballs, even if he can’t throw any of his own.

By the time you manage to cross the bustling town square and duck into the cozily warm shop again, you’re breathless and feel infused with contented cheer. There's something incredibly infectious about the snowy atmosphere. The bunny behind the counter is absolutely stunning -- her fur glows in the soft golden light, almost royal purple in shade, and her smile has  _ dimples _ to  _ die for _ .

“Morning!” she calls from behind the counter as you enter. “Golly, we don’t get tourists very often. Where’re you from, sweetheart?”

You think of the encounters with curious monsters who had found out you were a human, and try to think fast how to answer as you make your way over to her. You decide that a partial truth would be better than nothing. “I actually came from the Ruins, and… I’m hoping to not be a tourist very long, actually.” You offer a nervous grin. “Didn’t think about the wardrobe part, though. I need some warmer clothes if I’m going to be staying here for any amount of time!”

She laughs, and steps around from behind the counter to gesture toward one side of the store, “Yes, you seem to be lacking in the fur department. Here, we have a section specifically for non-furred visitors, though it will work just as well for folks like you who want to stay.”

“So, most of Snowdin is… primarily furred-types?” you ask, stumbling a bit over the lingo as you dive elbow deep into fuzzy, long sleeved shirts and coats. You aim for dark colors -- anything to better insulate heat -- and pull back with three long sleeved shirts in a rich, deep midnight blue. Two of them are particularly fuzzy. You’re not ashamed to spend a moment just running your fingers over the soft material -- it feels rather like the texture of a teddy bear, lightly pebbled in texture but made of fabric; the inside is lined with warm wool. Normally you’d stay away from wool, since you usually find it scratchy, but the inside is, strangely, the same texture as the outside. 

“Furred-types and nature-based folks!” the shopkeep replies cheerfully while you’re ensconced in your fabric appreciation. It has to be some sort of magic, you think. You’ve been around your fair share of fabrics on the surface (more than once, you’ve had to throw your hand in with floundering clothing departments), and nothing can quite compare to this one. “We got a few new folks from the Capital a bit back, they were in here just like you, sweetie. Diggin’ through those old bins like looking for treasure.”

You grin at her, before making another dive into the bins, aiming for pants this time. “I gotta say, these clothes are all  _ really _ nice for… er, bargain bin stuff?” You peer at a couple of tags, arching an eyebrow at the low prices. One of your chosen shirts is less than ten gold. The other two are only 15G each. 

“Second hand.” she nods. “Most of them were made by the folks that brought them in, once they no longer fit. It’s a bit of a tradition, here!”

“Useful tradition.” you retrieve two semi-new pairs of pants, each of them a thick, warm, but watery-smooth material the consistency of silk. The bottoms bunch together for ease of shoving in boots. You peer at the tag and hum -- spider silk wool? Cool. 

You toss them over your arm with the three shirts, and page through the hanging coats on the rack near the bargain bins. A coat is where you're willing to splurge.

Well, a coat and probably a bigger backpack. You know that the one you snagged from Toriel’s home in the Ruins won’t be able to carry  _ everything  _ you plan on buying.

You press the pads of your fingers to the insides of four or five different coats, humming thoughtfully while the shopkeep watches you with an interested eye. You’re not sure what exactly you’re looking for, texture-wise, but you know you’ll know it when you--

\-- _ that.  _ That is what you’re looking for. Soft and furry, like petting a well-groomed and very clean cat. It wasn’t exactly the same as the lining of the coat you had borrowed from Sans yesterday, but it was nice and you were pretty particular about fabrics. You pull the coat off of the rack and toss it over the pile of clothing you’ve already accumulated.

You return to the bins, digging down to try and find a nice pair of gloves or mittens. You figure that you’ll get one last good thing, before stocking up on some basics -- underwear, a few pairs of thick socks, a winter hat... Your bra will have to do for the time being unless you can find a sports bra in here somewhere. You snag a box of tampons from the shelf when you see it.

“You’re really gathering a stockpile, there.” The shopkeep notes.

“Starting from scratch.” you admit, “I need at least a couple of days’ worth of outfits, and...” you pause, glancing up at her, “You wouldn’t happen to be hiring, would you?”

“Not me, unfortunately. You didn’t bring anything with you?” she sounds mildly concerned for your well being.

“I didn’t… exactly expect to wind up here.” you let out an evasive laugh, looking back down into the bin again. You find a nice navy blue set of mittens, and add it to the pile of clothing you’ve gotten. “Gotta make due, though. Do you have any bags?”

“Just over there,” she gestures, still watching you with apparent worry, but she looks oddly determined now. You follow her directions and pick up the largest bag, peering at the price tag. With a grimace you add your purchases up in your head. You’re butting  _ right _ up against your roughly 200G limit already. You’ll definitely have to make a stop at the Ball game.

You resolve to come back later for more, bringing the bag and the pile of clothes to the counter. “Just these for now, thank you.” You smile politely at the shopkeep as she looks at the tags and adds up the prices, though you’re already tugging out your pouch of gold and starting to make neat little stacks of twenty, working your way up to 198, which had been your sum--

“A square 100.” she smiles knowingly at you even as you freeze in making your fifth pile; you  _ know _ you had the math right. “First time customer discount.”

“...you’re really going to insist on that, aren’t you?” you say softly, an unwilling, but very pained smile forming on your lips. They’re all so _ nice _ ! All of them! You feel kind of wretchedly cynical and jaded in comparison to all of these impossibly kind monsters. You’ve always been the first to offer such kindness, but you’ve never really expected any of it back from the rest of the world. And now here, these, these  _ strangers _ had shown you more kindness in two days than you’d encountered in close to four years. They didn't know you, they didn't have any  _ reason _ to be kind to you, they just... _ were. _

“I don’t know what you mean.” her eyes are glimmering -- she’s not even attempting to hide the fact that she’s lying. She knows exactly what she’s doing, and you have the feeling you’re not really going to be able to insist on paying full price.

“Look, I--” you have to take a moment to compose yourself, touched by her generosity. “I appreciate it, really, but-- I can’t possibly take all of this for  _ half _ the price you’d usually sell them at, first time customer or not. It’s not fair to you.”

“I’m the one who offered.” she points out.

“Yes, but…” you struggle, inanely, for a moment; you’re still emotionally drained from the stress of yesterday, it’s hard to think straight. “I can afford full price, really. I’ll even probably… definitely be back later to buy more.”

“A little kindness makes the world easier, darlin’.” she hums, still smiling at you, a softer smile this time. You feel another stab of emotional, touched, inadequacy. She’s just articulated your own personal motto. Why be cruel, when you can be kind?

From her, though, it comes as easily as her breathing, and you can’t help but feel again like you’re nowhere near as kind as these people you’ve encountered here.

You think back to Toriel’s explanation, brief though it was. A war, and the monsters lost, and so their ancestors were sent down into the depths... trapped. An entire race, generation upon generation, sentenced to imprisonment for the simple crime of their ancestors losing.

The world is cruel enough. Circumstance is cruel. You can understand why they would choose to be kind.

There’s an ache -- a familiar one, one you’ve felt countless times before, slipping in and out of people’s lives as the winds and your store-hopping takes you. You’ve always thought it was just deep in your heart, but now that you know about your Soul and have felt where it resides, you know that the ache stems from there.

You press a hand to your breastbone, ducking your head for a moment and taking a slow, shaky breath.

“You’re right,” you say softly, “So please let me do  _ you _ the kindness of paying  _ at least _ more than half.” you look up again and offer a small, faint smile, entirely aware that it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’ll understand if you insist that I don’t pay full… I won’t stop  _ your _ effort to be kind. But I will pay at least a hundred and seventy five.”

She reaches forward and presses one incredibly soft paw to your hand, keeping your gaze with ease, her eyes soft and understanding. “I won’t take a single gold over one-fifty, dear. Your patronage has been your kindness. You’re the most prolific shopper I’ve had in a while, and you’re a first time customer. I owe you at least that much of a discount. Besides, that will be enough gold to cover me for a couple of weeks.” she smiles a bit more, “And if you’re planning on coming back, all the better for me.”

You let out a soft, uncontrollable giggle. “Are we really bartering over whether I should pay  _ less  _ or  _ more _ … in reverse?”

She smiles a bit more, squeezing your hand once. “One fifty. I mean it.”

“One fifty it is.” you acquiesce with a small smile and a sigh, counting out fifty more coins and pushing the pile toward her. She sweeps the small stacks of gold bits into a pouch behind the counter, and then helps you roll the various clothing items into small bundles to push into the backpack. You pull the coat and mittens on, waving at her as you swing the backpack onto one shoulder.

“Dear?” she calls out before you can leave. You look over your shoulder to see that softer, motherly expression on her face again. “If you ever need to talk to someone about your circumstances… well, we’re all a neighborly bunch, here, in Snowdin, but… know that I’m a willing ear, alright? I obviously don’t know how you wound up having to… er… start from scratch…? And I’m not  _ askin _ ’, per se, but… you know.”

For a moment, you’re caught like a deer in headlights. You realize, somewhat distantly, that your story excuse makes it sound like you were ran out of your old home.

In a way, you kind of were. It's just that you were the one doing the running. Just like always. 

You’re not  **BRAVE**. You run when things grow overwhelming. But you can pretend to be.

You take a deep breath in through your nose, squaring your shoulders and putting on your best ‘everything’s fine with my life’ smile. “I appreciate it. Thank you.”

Then you turn and leave. You somehow keep your composure until you’re out the door, then fall back against the wall. Your soul aches for these monsters; you can’t imagine going centuries,  _ lifetimes _ down here. You know, in the same way that you know your heart is beating, that you want to see them, somehow, reach freedom.

You’re just certain that you also want to actually  _ be there _ to see it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Select>Save.Point>Menu>Save>File1  
> Attribute>Bravery  
> File1>Rename>WhatMakesAPersonBrave  
> File."WhatMakesAPersonBrave"_saved


	11. =)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> =)

After a few moments, you push off of the wall again and turn your footsteps toward Snowdin Woods once more. The town has quieted some, while you were in the store -- some of the kids have been called in for lunch, some of the adults have drifted into Grillby’s to do the same. You’re grateful for the quieter chance to slip away unnoticed.

You stop briefly at the door to the Inn, checking the pricing. Seventy gold per night is… hm. Not all that steep, actually, considering you’ve figured out a relatively easy way to make ten-gold a pop, but you still reason you’d better get an actual job instead. Better safe than sorry.

The woods seem quieter, more empty than they did yesterday. Passing trap after deactivated trap, you let the steady beat of your footsteps pulse with your heartbeat, just quietly soaking in the world. Even if the world is a lot smaller than it was two days ago.

The air feels… off. It’s not something big enough to notice without focusing on it, but you’re letting your thoughts wander, and you can feel it like an itch against your skin. It’s a faint weight, something that shouldn’t be there, a buzzing that you can just barely hear, a sour taste at the back of your mouth. It feels like concentrated pressure against your soul -- a sense of hopelessness.

Then you blink, and the world is cheery and colorful again. The snow is so white it almost looks blue, the trees are so dark they look black, the puzzles you pass have splashes of brilliant color that stand out against the mostly monochrome landscape. You briefly wonder where Ellie is.

“All alone again, hmm~?”

Your blood runs colder than the chill air around you, and you freeze in place. That voice, childlike and mischievous, with a faint echo...

“Flowey.” you acknowledge, distantly, feeling oddly like a spectator in your own body.

He's popped out of the snow a few feet in front of you, slightly shorter than you remember him seeming, but you suppose that's just the layer of snow on the ground obscuring a few inches. His expression is innocent and cheerful, the same innocent look he had started off with.

It's incredible how immediately your sense of reality strips away whenever he's around. You feel, once again, the sharp clarity of the insane situation you're in, as though the world around you was one of the more silly fantasy RPGs. Monsters trapped for millennia. Talking flowers. Magic. A barrier that you couldn't escape without both a human soul _and_ a monster soul.

_You're still not an RPG heroine._

You'd been shoving those thoughts away just to get through yesterday, but now it feels like you're right back at the beginning of the tutorial, alone and weaponless against a known hostile. And this time, Toriel isn't about to save you.

“I'm surprised you lasted long enough to even think of doubling back. Too scared to push onward?” Flowey taunts, bobbing up and down from his spot (your mind makes an absolutely off the wall comparison -- that way you bounce your leg when sitting and waiting for something. Excess energy, a need to _move_ ).

“Was there a reason for this or did you just want to startle me and taunt me?”

You internally wince at the sound of your own voice -- it's distant, unaffected. It's your retreated voice, the voice you use when you're trying desperately to hide your own discomfort. Flowey seems to know that you're unnerved, since he smirks in your direction and, seeming amused, forms a few more of the magical bullets in the air.

(The itching feeling across your skin gets worse, when they form, concentrated attacks of malice, intended to hurt. The entire air feels suddenly a hundred times more oppressive, but you find yourself more interested in the quieter pressure you had felt before. Was it Magic? Were you actually _feeling_ the effect of the Barrier as a physical sensation?)

“Let’s just call this a personal experiment.” he says, and you get the distinct feeling like you should be running in the opposite direction--

\--

The next two seconds of your existence skyrocket to the top of the surreal-o-meter, without any competition.

\--

The bullet behind you that you didn’t see burns white hot as it passes directly through the center of your soul.

\--

Everything is dark, darker, so much darker that the _air_ is black, and goddamnit all.

You’re alone and you know, somehow, that this is death. Death is empty. Death is the absence of life and light and meaning and you’re _dead_ , you’re _dead or dying_ and you

are

absolutely

motherfucking

**_T   E   R   R   I   F   I   E   D._ **

\--

You’re not sure how long you’re stuck there, in that empty place-that-isn’t-a-place. Maybe it’s an eternity. Maybe it’s a nanosecond. But however long it takes, you pull yourself together -- what’s left of yourself, you think. You look down and see nothing but a faint, coppery-bronze orange-red glow, like a dying ember, a fire that’s struggling to keep burning.

The same color that your Soul had been, but… duller.

\--

You’re not sure what prompts you to think in terms of video games again.

\--

You’re definitely not sure what makes you wonder if Loading from a previous point is possible.

\--

  
~~ͥͫ̏̃ͮ̾͊F̰̖̖̖̠͍ͬ̏͠i͐̒l̪̤̔ͮͪ̓̏ĕ̓͏ͅ.̴̻̼̙̏ͤͩ͊͐̀ͥ”͈͉͕̜̓W͔̘̬̖͔̟̏́̊͂̓h̘̞̥̫ͭ̎̈̔͟a̪̫t̼̜̩͍̲͙͍͂͋̈ͨṂ̣͚̈́̿͛ͬ̇ͅḁ͡k̗͖̖͎̮̐ͅę͕̻̲͇̦̱̓͐ͨͅş̻̫̲͈̝̃͋̊̈ͫĂ̼̣̲̗̫͈P̬͉̜̦e͕͓͊̈́̄̔ͪͯ̑ͅr͈͚̋ͣͩ̈s̉̔̃̆ͣ͂o͉͐͒̐̉n̝̘ͧ͊̏ͮ̾B̷̙͚͇ͪ̇ͧ͆̒ȑ̋ͣ̍ͦ̑ͬ҉̩̺͎͖̻̱ã̮̏̉ͣͩ́v̤͕̩̩̹̟̾̈́̇̇ẹ̛̋̌̃̚”͖͓̱̝̮̹ͩͬͦ̄_̲̲͚̘̇̉͜l̠̾ȯ̪̌a̫͑ͪ̌ͧͪ̈͑d̪͇̩̗̺̠̹ͩ͗̏͟ęd̲̟͛̿͂ͨ̀ͮ̕~~  
---  
  
~~\--~~

For a moment, you’re caught like a deer in headlights. You realize, somewhat distantly, that your story excuse makes it sound like you were ran out of your old home.

In a way, you kind of were. It's just that you were the one doing the running. Just like always.

You’re not **BRAVE**. You run when things…

Grow…

Overwhelming?

You blink, and the darkness clinging at the edge of your vision disappears. You suddenly feel woozy.

The world around you shifts, reorienting, and all at once you’re standing at the door to the shop in Snowdin, the shopkeep looking particularly worried when you sway slightly and lean back against the door.

“I’m-- fine,” you raise a hand, before she can speak. “Dizzy spell. I--I appreciate your kindness, ma’am.”

She hesitates, before nodding. “Keep in mind what I said, darlin’. You’re not alone here.”

“I know. Thank you.” you manage to straighten your shoulders and leave through the door, holding onto the backpack straps like a lifeline.

The town has grown quieter since you entered the shop, many of the kids having been called inside to lunch, many of the adults having drifted to Grillby’s to do the same. You turn your head toward the woods, thinking of the Ball game--

Then shudder, a system-wide terror spiking in your soul, prompting you to turn the opposite way, back toward Sans and Papyrus’ house. You’re halfway there before you have another coherent thought, beyond “not that way no I'm running away from that”.

_What… just happened? Why did I react like that?_

Your back is to the inside of the door to the skeleton brothers’ house, seconds before your legs give out. Your soul aches. Everything aches, all of a sudden, like you’ve just run a triathlon that you had no time to prepare for, and you’re _starving_ again, despite having eaten just twenty minutes or so ago.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, sudden enough to startle you and nearly send you falling over. When you pull it out, you find that Sans and Papyrus seem to have taken the liberty of adding their numbers into it. You certainly don’t know anyone else who would use “bonehead” and “THE GREAT PAPYRUS” as name indicators. The notification flashing across the screen indicates that Sans has just sent you a text message. It’s followed up almost immediately by a second one.

> _bonehead :: u alright?_ _  
>  _ _bonehead :: since we left u alone & all _

Your fingers are shaking. You’ve got the distinct impression that he’s not just asking out of the blue, it’s too big a coincidence.

> _ >> are u texting me while ur working bonehead??? _   
>  _bonehead :: im on break_   
>  _bonehead :: pls dont change the subject_ _  
>  _ _ >> i dont mind that u left me alone. pretty used to it. _   
> _bonehead :: yeah c, i cant help but notice u didnt directly answer the question of ‘u alright?’_

Maybe because you’re _not_. Texting him is helping, you feel a little less like you’re about to shake out of your own skin, but you still definitely feel like you can’t stand up.

> _ >> I went to the store. I went back to ur guys’ house. Not much to not be alright about? _ _  
>  _ _bonehead :: nothing happened on the way there or back??_

You shudder again, pulling your knees up to rest your forehead on them, a flicker of something dark and unreal clinging at the edge of your thoughts. He definitely knows, somehow. Knows that something has to have happened, something weird.

The phone buzzes again before you get the chance to answer.

> _bonehead :: i no i can talk 2 u about whatever but u no u can do the same right?_ _  
>  _ _bonehead :: pls talk to me_

You let out another shaky breath, another heavy shudder running down your spine. Your fingers tremble even more as you tap out a response.

> _ >> im not hurt 4 starters _   
>  _bonehead :: i dont like the sound of that_   
>  _ >> idk what happened _ _  
>  _ _ >> im just weirdly overwhelmed rn _ _  
>  >> thought of goin out 2 the woods again 2 play the ball game??_

The more you send, the easier it comes. You’re poking at that same old wound again, seeping more of the anxiety out into the open, weirdly comforted by the fact that he cares enough to poke and prod past your usual evasive answers.

> _bonehead :: u coulda textd me, im pretty good w/shortcuts_   
>  _bonehead :: coulda kept u company if u wanted, its close enough 2 my station i could technically b considered workin_   
>  _bonehead :: i am sposed 2 keep an eyesocket out 4 humans after all ;)_   
>  _ >> yeah, i no _   
>  _ >> decided not 2 go tho. weird spike of anxiety, suddenly didnt seem like a good idea. _   
>  _ >> 2 close to the ruins i think _   
>  _bonehead :: yeah ellie mentioned somethin about u almost dyin 3 times in there_   
>  _ >> okay 1, tori wasnt gonna kill me, she was tryin 2 dissuade me from leavin _   
>  _ >> 2 the fall didnt kill me obviously, and even if it did that would be the only death worth dyin _   
>  _ >> honestly the only thing that actively tried to maliciously kill me was that stupid tutorial weed in the entire time ive been down here _   
>  _bonehead :: 2 questions: 1, ‘tutorial’??? and 2, y would the fall have been the only death worth dyin_   
>  _ >> 1, dont ask, im bein dumb _ _  
>  _ _ >> 2, bc the fall is the only occasion where i almost died in the process of tryin 2 save someone else. _ _  
>  >> i fell like an idiot bc i didn’t look down and slipped off the edge_

He doesn’t answer for a long moment, giving you the time to breathe with your forehead pressed against your knees, chasing the errant thoughts that you keep sensing at the edge of your perception.

> _bonehead :: you saved someone else from falling?_   
>  _ >> yeah. a kid. :c i think they were tryin 2 jump on purpose. _   
>  _bonehead :: u mean… they were tryin 2 dust themself??_   
>  _bonehead :: stars_   
>  _bonehead :: why???_ _  
>  _ _ >> hey, guess who doesn’t have the answer to that _ _  
>  bonehead :: sorry, sorry_

You wince. That was more than a little harsh. You’re just… not in a good place right now. It feels like there’s blackness clinging to your skin, trying desperately to eat the light of your soul, and you can almost swear you hear childlike laughter in the distance. Childlike laughter with a faint, unworldly echo.

> _ >> no, im sorry. _

You're gripping your battered old tank of a Nokia like a lifeline again, even as you furiously backpedal.

> _ >> that was entirely uncalled 4. not doin 2 hot rn, but i shouldnt b taking it out on u. _   
>  _bonehead :: want me 2 come back_   
>  _ >> u. are. working. _   
>  _bonehead :: i told u im on break throw a guy a bone here_ _  
>  _ _bonehead :: come on we can get grillbys_ _  
>  bonehead :: i dont think u were all the way conscious last night and u probably dont remember it and i pretty much owe it 2 myself 2 share the glory that is grillbys w/ everyone._

You let out a small, hesitant giggle, thinking maybe he’s actually offering to just ditch work and hang out with you, and for some reason you don’t feel like it’s a charity thing. You think he honestly just wants to help you feel better. Maybe that’s why you let yourself be a bit more honest and open than you usually would.

> _ >> well as much as food, especially grillbys, sounds amazing??? i kind of cant actually stand rn _   
>  _bonehead :: ???_   
>  _ >> ^~^; kinda been sitting literally just inside the front door for the last ten minutes, shaking like a leaf. _   
>  _bonehead :: stars ok hang on ill be over in like a min gotta lock up the sentry shack_   
>  _ >> no come on sans its fine im fine im not hurt or anything i just need a bit of time to sit _ _  
>  _ _bonehead :: nope not leaving u alone u had a panic attack yesterday_ _  
>  >> im not having a panic attack rn it’s just an anxiety spike itll pass in like 5 min_

“then you can spend those five minutes on the couch instead of the shitty carpet floor.”

His voice comes so suddenly that you nearly squeal in surprise, lifting your head from your knees and certain that you’re staring at him like the grim reaper has come to collect your soul. Your trembling, which had finally started to die down a bit, kicks back up in full force, and he manages to look sheepish. He offers you his hand, standing right in front of you, and heaves you up easily when you swing your hand up to meet his.

Your knees are still very much refusing to hold your weight, but he holds you up with apparent ease and helps you hobble the last few feet to the couch, easing you down gently into the cushions. He immediately takes the seat next to you with no apparent intent to go back to his job. You feel warmth creeping up your neck at the sheer willingness to drop everything that he’s showing.

“Really, I’m fine…” you insist weakly. He raises a browbone at you but otherwise doesn’t move. “Really! It’s not as bad as it got yesterday, I swear, I--”

“what can I do to help?” he asks, and he’s so serious about it that you finally just sigh and let yourself lean over to press your shoulder against his. He’s putting off heat like no tomorrow and you can feel an odd, familiar buzz against your arm where it touches his. It’s… soothing.

“...this is enough.” you murmur quietly, in response.

“what happened?” he asks, softly, again.

“I told you…” you falter, looking down at the blue and purple zig-zag carpet, “I don’t… know. One second I was fine, talking to the Snowdin Shopkeep… I…”

He looks down and away in the opposite direction, and you can see him visibly warring with himself in the corner of your eye. He looks like he’s struggling not to demand more, and you can understand why your reticence and reluctance to talk about it would be frustrating. It’s just…

“...it’s hard to think about.” you admit, softly. He looks around at you, blinking. “And I don’t mean that figuratively, I mean… it feels like it didn’t even happen. It _didn’t_ even happen. I-I mean, it’s gotta just be some weird stress thing…” you’re frowning down at your lap now, “I’ve blacked out before but-- but it’s never been… like that.”

“you blacked out?” he sounds instantly more concerned.

“I-- look, I’m not explaining this well.” you bite your lip. “I think… I don’t know. When I thought about going out into the woods again to play the Ball game some more, get some more spare gold… I had some sort of-- flash thought. Like, a sudden jolt of terror that if I did, then…” you push a hand up to drag it down your face, letting out a rueful laugh, “Man, I guess nearly dying to Flowey scared me more than I realized… I thought he’d just sort of… be there. I thought he’d kill me.” You laugh again, humorlessly, shaking your head, “It was like, two seconds of a thought but it was _vivid_ as all hell. I really felt like I died. Just for a second.”

Instantly, his hand has grabbed yours, pulling it gently away from your face. He’s looking at you with open concern, but there’s something else, something guarded, in the back of his gaze. You shy away from it.

“you’re sure you’re okay?” he asks, so gently that you want to hug him so badly. Surely there had to be some penalty from the universe for someone to care enough to be _this_ concerned for you.

“I’ll be fine.” you murmur back, and try for a smile, hoping beyond hope that this wasn’t one of those weird times where your face decided to burn with a blush from the fiery depths of hell. He’s got an oddly intense look, something like skepticism, so you don’t think it worked. “Sad to say, this isn’t the first time I’ve gotten like this… It’s just… a lot to happen in a very little time, you know? I’m overstressed. I’m sure that once I get a job and have a few days of something resembling normal…”

“a job…?” he blinks, looking even more surprised.

“Well, yeah. Need a way to make gold somehow, right? If I’m gonna be here a while...?” You’re still holding your attempt at a smile, hoping to ease his worry.

“so… you’re staying?” You feel a shiver run down your spine at the combination of the way he’s staring at you and the tone he used, somewhere between hopeful and questioning, like he wants to believe it _so badly_ (something _aches_ from that want) but is so hesitant to believe it’s true. You squeeze his hand without thinking, realizing he’s still hanging onto it.

You don’t tell him that you’re not sure how long it’ll last, before you get _twitchy_. You can’t break that tiny tone of hope.

“That’s the idea.” You say instead, nodding a bit. “I mean… not like I can really go anywhere, with the Barrier and all. I’m kind of just as trapped as all of you, now… I'm most likely gonna die down here eventually.” you shrug one shoulder, awkwardly. “No sense in sugar-coating it for myself right? Gotta get on with life.”

(His hand twitches and tightens around yours, and it is _ridiculously_ warm for bones. It’s very distracting.)

You take a few seconds to look down at your joined hands, and his gaze follows yours.

“...is this weird?” he asks, quickly, tensing up. “i can let go--”

“No.” you shake your head, and feel him relax a bit when you brush your thumb over the bend of his own. “It’s nice.”

His tentative smile is even nicer.


	12. Please Make Note That The Fire Exit Is Not For The Use Of Customers

You sit there with him for another several minutes, regaining your equilibrium slowly but surely, and by the time that you’re certain that any ‘break’ he’s been taking is entirely over and he’s now just straight-up ditching work, you feel like your legs have finally stopped shaking. You tentatively press more weight onto your feet, and he notices your shifting and stands immediately, offering you his hand to pull you up again.

You’re fairly sure you’re losing the battle against that blush from the depths of hell. _Pull yourself together_ , you think sharply at your Hormones, _You met him_ **_yesterday_ ** _._

_Yes_ , your Hormones whisper back, _and_ **_so far_ ** _, he’s considerate and sweet and he does_ **_puns_ ** _. How can you_ **_not_ ** _think he’s cute? And he’s loyal to a fault, you already know that, he looks at Papyrus like he’s more glorious than the sun._

_Papyrus honestly is more glorious than the sun._ Your well abused and starved Interpersonal Relationships section sighs, _He’s unlike anything in this world._

_You did not just wistfully make a star joke,_ Your Professional Image section groans internally at your Interpersonal Relationships section, and you feel like that’s just… an accurate representation of you, all the time, whenever you try to interact with anyone ever.

You shake the thoughts from your head, deciding that they aren’t productive, taking hold of his hand again. He keeps a light hold on your forearm as you stand, making sure that while you sway initially, it's not enough to actually fall over again. He slowly releases his hands.

“good?” he asks, again, and you pointedly roll your eyes at him.

“Good.” You smile.

“up for grillby’s?” he asks, and you nod.

“Yeah, sure, let me just get changed. Is there a bathroom?”

“yeah, under the stairs.”

“There’s two doors under the stairs.” you point out.

“the one closest to the wall is the bathroom, the other one has the washer and dryer.”

“Stealth bathroom.” you tease over your shoulder as you carefully kneel down at your new backpack, pulling out a new set of clothing and piling it in your arms. You hear him chuckle behind you as you stand again.

“yeah, i guess. s’just the bathroom to us, though.”

You let out a small laugh of your own, before ducking into the small room under the stairs. To your surprise, there’s a full tub and shower right next to the toilet -- in fact, the entire room seems curiously larger than should fit on the outside.

_Magic._ You rationalize, impressed, even as a small part of you is squealing _TARDIS_ at full volume in the back of your head. You make quick work of getting changed, freshening up at the sink and taking a moment to stare intensely at your own face, willing the blush away (it’s not as bad as you thought, just a dusting of pink on your cheeks, thank _god_ ).

You exit the bathroom and offer your arm with an exaggerated curtsy. “After you, my good sir.”

“but what if i’d rather go beside you?” he asks drily, arching a brow bone in a perfect mimicry of your own sardonic brow-arch. You rack your brain for a moment to try and think back to whether you’d done it to him or not. It’s hard to say, really; yesterday had been such a whirlwind of crazy that you definitely can’t remember all of it.

(You must have, though, because he’s got it _nailed_ , right down to the way the opposite eye closes slightly. He takes it to the next extreme when you stare for a few seconds too long, winking said eye.)

“As long as you’re not stalking behind me.” you reply just as drily back, curling your mouth into a sly smile and arching your own brow, striving to prove that you’re still the master of the raised eyebrow. It helps that you actually _have_ eyebrows.

“hey,” he looks jokingly offended, “i don’t _stalk_ . i  _skull-k_.”

“ _Aaaactuuuallyyy..._ ” you drawl out the vowels, “I seem to recall you using the word ‘tracking’. As in, oh... _Human hunting_? Mister ‘I’m not really all too into human hunting’.”

He grabs hold of your hand, and all at once all of your joking bravado disappears. He’s got a sharp-toothed grin that _immediately_ makes you worry that you’re blushing again. _Christ_ he’s too cute to be real.

“yeah,” he drawls right back, “because it’s too easy. See? already caught one.” He tugs you toward him, until your hip bumps into his, and _yep,_ you’re definitely blushing again, damnit. It’s significantly not fair that he gets to be this smooth. When do you get to be decent enough at social interaction to make _him_ flustered?

“Bonehead.” you murmur softly, caught a bit off guard, and your tone… you’re not entirely sure what your tone just did. It was something between flustered and joking and dismissive, all at once, like you had been aiming to make the comment a final note to the conversation, but _damn_ it all if you’re not affected by that smug grin he’s sporting. “Let’s get going, alright? I’m starving.”

“yeah, okay.” he’s still grinning, but it softens into something more quietly enthusiastic. He turns to the door and steps out into the mid afternoon glow of the caverns (your sleeping schedule is… admittedly kind of screwed, right now). The various adults and children of Snowdin are back out and going about their business in the square again, the kids dashing through the snow and laughing as they scramble past the both of you.

You can’t stop smiling, watching them run around, even as the little armless one trips and lands face first in the snow. The other two immediately pause while he wiggles himself back to his feet. You follow their progression back through the town out of the corners of your eyes, while you walk to Grillby’s. Sans lets go of your hand at some point, and both of you shove each of your hands into your coat pockets, practically in tandem.

He opens the door for you when you reach the restaurant, and you turn a smile toward him, stepping inside to a series of greetings as the Grillby’s patrons recognize you from last night -- and more importantly, they recognize Sans as one of their own.

“Hot date, Sansy?” One of the rabbits in a booth calls out, a playful look on her face.

“ain’t i always a hot date?” he teases right back as he steps in beside you, leading you over toward the bar.

“She ain’t too bad either,” the clearly giggly-drunk bunny calls back while peering ostentatiously in your direction, giving you a sly once over, and you give a small, flustered giggle. “Ain’t she the one who came in with you an’ Paps last night?”

“yeah,” Sans nods, taking a seat near the end of the bar, patting the seat beside him when you hesitate a bit. Is… is this a date? Is that a thing that’s happening? You walk over and take the seat beside him, and let out a soft, faintly annoyed sound when a whoopee cushion goes off under you. You could have _sworn_ that the seat had been clear, but… _Sans._

“Classy.” you murmur toward him, even as he snickers.

“class _ic_ , you mean.” he grins back at you, before tapping the bar to try and get Grillby’s attention. You glance around, smiling slightly, and wave at a couple of the monsters that you vaguely remember from the night before. The large hamster monster next to the jukebox flashes you a grin and a thumbs up when your gaze drifts to him.

“It’d be nice working here.” You hum, mostly to yourself, but you note the way Sans casts a glance over at you with a lazy grin as Grillby comes over.

“you’d make a cute waitress,” he comments, just in time for Grillby to stop in front of both of you. He tilts his head slightly, intrigued, and Sans looks up, pleased. “oh, hey grillbz. yeah, she’s looking for a job.”

“You wouldn’t happen to need a bit of help around here?” you ask, smiling politely toward Grillby. He looks at you for a few seconds before slowly nodding, and you feel a small thrill of something like hope.

“whoa, really?” Sans looks legitimately surprised beside you, like he hadn’t expected Grillby to say yes. Grillby nods again, and you bounce a bit in your seat, beaming.

“Oh man,” you grin, “Okay, what time would I have to be here? I don’t mind working long hours.”

“grillby works from eleven am to ten pm. after six the grill becomes primarily a bar, though alcohol is served throughout the day to those who ask.” Sans recites dutifully as Grillby gestures out an apparent answer. He’s still got a vaguely surprised look on his face. “the restaurant itself opens at 11:30, the first half hour is for straightening up and getting things prepped.”

“Sounds pretty standard.” you nod.

“he’d be able to handle the seven to ten at the end on his own, if you’re willing to take a waitress job for the other eight hours. help with prep, attend to customers, carry the food, that sort of thing. he says it’d help him if he can stick to the food prep.”

You hum, blinking. Grillby works eleven hour days, from what you’re hearing, and you get the feeling he doesn’t exactly take days off. You’re _insanely_ impressed -- you’ve done forty hour work weeks, and the occasional fifty hour work week whenever your money situation gets a bit dire, but... _seventy-seven_ hour work weeks.

You’re not sure why, but you’re suddenly intensely certain that he tosses in an extra three hours somewhere in there. A rounded eighty hour work week. Twice as much as what you’re used to.

You have an _insane_ amount of respect for that.

“it’d be six gold an hour -- yeesh, grillbz, only six?”

“Sounds like a deal.” You nod, your mouth curling into an ecstatic grin, despite the surprised glance at you from Sans. “Six gold an hour is forty eight gold a day, which is pretty close to the amount I think I saw posted at the Inn. I’ll only have to come up with twenty-two more each day -- which should be pretty easy, towns like this always have odd jobs, and babysitting, and… would I get tips?” you stop your ramble all at once, thinking it over. “Tips would probably cover it easily.”

Sans has both of his hands on the counter and is staring at you, wide eyed and confused. “wait, hang on. what?”

“What?” you repeat back.

“what was that about the inn?”

“Oh, uh. It’s seventy gold per night, right? I was just saying that six gold per hour gets me pretty close to that, and if… wait, do you use the word tip?” you’re suddenly not sure. They seemed so human most of the time that it doesn’t occur to you often that they might not have a concept for what a ‘tip’ was.

“yeah, we do-- but why the inn?” You realize all at once that his confusion isn’t about the word choice you used, but about your makeshift plan. You blink toward him, realizing that he looks… worried. “you’d be losing all the money you’d be making…”

You try to offer him a kind smile. “I can’t just mooch off of you and your brother. I’m grateful that you let me crash on your couch last night, but…”

“what if i’m offering to let you mooch?” he asks, seriously. “we’re supposed to keep an eye on you anyway, why not make it simple? besides,” he gestures around the restaurant, “we’re closer to grillby’s than the inn.”

“I’d--” you place a hand to your sternum, flustered. “I’d at least insist on paying rent.”

“you can insist, i might not take it.” he shrugs next to you. You narrow your eyes -- he shouldn’t be allowed to be this nonchalantly smooth, damnit! He has to have a weakness--

Wait.

“Fine,” you square your shoulders, “I’ll just give it to Papyrus.”

“ _s_ _hit._ ” he hisses theatrically and you burst out in giggles.

“I take it I won?” you drawl, smiling at him. He offers a rueful grin back.

“can’t say no to paps.” he admits softly, “that’s not fair, and you know it.”

You give a toothy grin, and he looks away from you, back toward Grillby, who still seems to be quietly waiting for your order. You’re not sure if it’s because of the odd lighting or because of something else, but you think his face is a bit oddly discolored.

“two orders of burgers and fries, grillbz,” he orders for the both of you. Grillby nods and steps away, and you lean over to bump your shoulder against Sans’ bony one.

“So… thirty gold a day sound okay?” you ask.

“...how about you just… pick up cooking and shopping for the house?” he asks right back, looking over at you with an amused sort of smile. “if you’re _insisting_ on being a _productive person_ and _actually contributing…_ ”

“Wow,” you snicker, “I have never heard that much insolent sarcasm toward productivity before, and I’ve worked in retail.”

“what can i say?” he shrugs, winking, “i'm just a lazybones.”

You bump your shoulder against his again, laughing outright, because you know now that _that_ is a boldfaced lie. He sways away from you, making you almost lean too far and fall over on top of him. “Cooking and shopping, huh? Stereotypically girly things.”

“no, i-- it’s not--” he looks at you with his eye sockets wide and his pupils small, looking the epitome of nerves. “look, i-- paps is getting better with his cooking, but… he’s still only really able to do spaghetti, and all i can really reliably manage is quiches, and... “ he looks down, and there’s definitely a bright blue glow over his nasal ridge. “and _both_ of us barely ever have time to go shopping with the sentry jobs…”

“Sans,” you cut him off, smiling gently, “I’m teasing. Honestly, one look in your guys’ fridge? It was obvious you two have pretty much a bachelor’s pad thing going. Besides,” you add a sly twist to your smile, “If I’m doing the shopping, you can’t prevent me from contributing at least two hundred gold per week to the house, if only in foodstuffs.”

“agh,” he shakes his head, “why are you so determined to contribute?” There’s an odd note that you can’t quite place on the word determined. His smile is small and amused, though, and it makes your chest feel warm and fluttery enough that you brush past the oddity.

The rest of the meal is spent quietly, with a few silly puns thrown in whenever you can fit them. He downs a big gulp of ketchup at one point, and you must make a face, because he laughs and offers you the bottle. Aiming to be brave and not back down from an obvious challenge, you accept it and squirt a big gulp into your mouth as well.

He almost looks impressed, until you swallow it and immediately start gagging and whining, because _god,_ ketchup. So much ketchup taste everywhere on your taste buds! You lean into his hand when he starts rubbing your back, whining piteously and gulping down the water that Grillby helpfully (and very carefully) places in front of you.

“I hate you,” you whine at Sans, while he continues snickering unapologetically and very unsympathetically to your woe.

“nah, you don’t.” he answers back with an amused chuckle.

“Totally do. We’re no longer friends.”

“see, i’m gonna interpret that as we’re now absolute best friends.”

“Nope, wrong. Ellie is my best friend down here, so far. Papyrus is an extremely close second. You’re… I don’t know, maybe sixth, after Toriel, Grillby, and the shopkeeper.”

“yikes, even after the shopkeep?”

“Yep. I have had actual conversations with only like… seven people down here, man.”

“i’m wounded. you have wounded me.”

“Oh, hush, I’m sure it’s just a _flesh_ wound.”

For a second, you feel unadulterated glee bubble up inside you, because he freezes in reaction, and you know that you’ve managed to catch him off guard for once. He regains his aplomb quickly, though, giving you a ‘you started this’ sort of smile. “well, obviously, i mean, i’ve got thick _skin_.”

“In one _ear_ and out the other?”

“ _eye_ ,” he winks, emphasising the pun, “can keep this up all day.”

“Laaame.” You stick your tongue out, “Homonyms aren’t puns, they’re just cheating.”

“by what rules?” he manages to somehow look insulted. “puns don’t have rules.”

“They do if they aim to be good ones.”

“you’re just making that up because you’re losing.”

You bicker with him for close to five minutes straight, interspersing puns every other sentence, giggling between arguments until Grillby waves you out, you’ve finished your meal and there’s only so much of Sans’ type of humor he can stand in one day. You wave at him and tell him you'll be back at 11 the next day to start working.

You grab hold of Sans by the arm of his hoodie once he’s out of his chair, feeling almost buoyant with positivity as you bounce both yourself and him out the door into the eddying snow again -- just because things are looking down doesn’t mean that you have to let misfortune beat you. You could still push back, and carve a safe place for yourself out of time itself.

(You don’t realize it, but this thought makes your soul glow brighter within the confines of your torso. For this, _this_ is what bravery is for you -- the quiet strength of will to live with your fear, and _keep_ living. Moments of effort give you safe thoughts of personal bravery-accomplishment to latch onto, but it's the thoughts you don't think have any impact that give you a brighter glow.

You fail to notice the soft, subtle, contemplative glance that Sans throws your way.)

“you seem happy.” he notes quietly once you’re both outside. You cast a quick, brilliant smile his way.

“Of course I’m happy.” you murmur back at him, still beaming, and pretend not to notice the spark of something like surprise in his eyes. “Being unhappy isn’t worth it.” You swing your hand down to latch onto his, starting to swing his arm with your own. You’re pretty sure he doesn’t even realize he’s squeezing your hand almost immediately.

“isn’t worth it?” he asks, tilting his head slightly.

You nod, “Physically speaking… it’s a _lot_ more exhausting to be miserable. Seeing only the worst in life is draining, especially on top of an anxious personality. Anxiety is… jittery, and feels like a caffeine crash all the time, even without tossing on misery and potential depression.” You look away, biting at your lip, “I mean, yeah, being trapped down here isn’t exactly what I envisioned my life to be like, but… at least I’m still alive right now, right? And now I have a job worth doing, and…” you trail off smiling with a helpless sort of shrug. “Well, I have you, and Ellie, and Papyrus… I’ve not had _friends_ in a while. It’s… kind of awesome.”

“you... “ he says, softer still, expression distant and unreadable; for a few seconds, you wonder if maybe you said something weird, or too much, or if you made him uncomfortable again, but then he offers that softer smile again. “...you really _are_ something else.”


	13. Eavesdropping Is Not A Pretty Skill To Acquire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do you mean I've posted over 40 thousand words?
> 
> What do you mean I've gotten over a hundred comments??
> 
> What do you _mean_ I have almost three thousand hits???
> 
> (Happy Pi Day, everyone!)

You’re almost back to the front door of Sans’ and Papyrus’ home when you hear a cheerful cry of a bird call, and the sound of the wind being interrupted by wings that are quickly coming closer -- you can feel the way that your face lights up, and you drop Sans’ hand to turn in place, your eyes already turned upward. You hear him chuckle, and hear the door open and close behind you, signaling his retreat indoors. He knows you’ll be in shortly.

Ellie comes to a hover before you, chittering her already somehow familiar giggle, the air displacement of her wings casting cold gusts across your cheeks. “There you are,” you crow, lifting an arm without needing to be asked. She settles down on it, likewise naturally.

“Here I am.” she agrees, reaching forward to preen at your bangs affectionately, “I scouted ahead a bit. I thought you’d be sleeping a lot longer, since Sans told me you had some sort of insomnia last night. But it looks like you did some preparing of your own, so that’s good!”

“Hang on,” you blink at her, “You… scouted ahead?”

“Yeah. I flew through Waterfall to check out the terrain, and to check on how far ahead the warning of your arrival has gotten? The river’s overflowing a bit, the ground’s all mushy. It’ll be hard to move quickly until it dries out.”

“Well,” you offer a crooked grin, “Guess we might have to stay a while, then.”

She blinks, before her eyes narrow up at you, “...you’re nesting.” she announces, half question, half incredulity. “How can you already be nesting? It’s been two days. You can’t possibly not want to get out anymore, and you can’t have somehow given up _already_.”

You choose to pretend you haven’t heard the last bit, instead focusing on one of the more particular words she used. “Nesting?” You can guess, by context, what she means, but it’s still fascinating to pick up on little quirks and dialects of language. She’s a bird, this isn’t exactly a weird concept.

“Setting down a nest? Choosing a place to stay?” She fluffs up her wings, as if to actually **say** _I’m a bird, this isn’t exactly a weird concept._ “I mean, I met you yesterday, sure, but you were pretty eager to get out of the Ruins like… right away.”

“That was extenuating circumstances,” you point out, feeling your cheeks heat up. “Look, I… I just kind of want to let things calm down a bit, just for a while, if that’s okay? Yesterday was kind of brutal all things considered. I’m not exactly suited for adventure and near death experiences and… all that.”

“You still left the Ruins awfully fast.” she points out, not looking entirely convinced.

You sigh, giving her your best unamused, tired stare. “Two near deaths in quick succession before meeting Toriel. Then finding out I was trapped down here. _Then_ having her offer to let me stay with her. **_Then_ ** finding out she had a kid, kids, I don’t even know how _many_ , who have **_died_ ** . She didn't want me to stay because _I_ would be safer, Ellie, and if I did stay, it would've only made my eventual leaving hurt her that much more.”

She still looks a little bit confused, “I just… you said you _could_ stay with her. That’s what’s confusing me.”

You bite your lip, “I could’ve.” you admit, your voice going soft, “But I get the distinct feeling she would still… outlive me.” it’s a hard thing to explain, that instinct that had screamed at you _get out, get out, it’s for the best, she will live to see you die._ “Ellie... out here, I… there’s still a chance. Eventually. And… my death might yet be worth something, out here. You could all go free… even her.” You swallow heavily. “In there… it was just an eventual certainty. I would die, and nothing would happen. You’d still be trapped. And she didn’t need another unhappy, too-short life on her conscience. It’s…” you drop your head, looking away, “It’s better this way.”

Are you rationalizing your shitty habit of running away and never actually ‘nesting’, as Ellie had put it?

Oh yeah. Big time.

“If you say so…” she leans forward to preen at your bangs again, clearly worried. “So… we’re staying in Snowdin for a while? Are we staying with Sans and Papyrus?”

“Yeah. For a while.” You nod again, giving a sheepish smile. “I’m not sure how long, but... I got a job at Grillby’s. I insisted on paying rent. And I also got a new jacket, as you can see, so you can continue to use my ratty old hoodie for your nest.”

She fluffs up all of her feathers in startlement, and you let out an amused chuckle at her defensive insistences that she was only _borrowing_ it, you don’t have to be so _nice_ , it’s just really _soft_ and the fabric folds so _nicely_ , and oh god, are you actually _serious?_ You lift up your free hand to mimic her preening motion with your fingertips, running the tips of your nails lightly through the feathers under her wings, and tell her yes, you’re serious.

“Just try not to tear it up, okay?” You smile, “I’ve had it for almost ten years, since middle school.”

“You’ve been the same size for ten years?” She cocks her head to the side, looking intrigued.

“No,” you laugh, turning toward the door to get out of the chill again. “But back then I really, _really_ liked oversized sweatshirts.” You slip back inside and glance around, hearing the sound of cutlery clattering in the kitchen and rationalizing that Sans must be in there, before walking over to the inner corner of the couch and settling down on it to relax.

Ellie hops up onto your shoulder and nestles down right next to your cheek, her breast feathers fluffing up in contentment against your skin, and you idly bring your hand up to continue brushing your fingertips through her feathers. The conversation has stopped, for the moment, both of you just… quietly enjoying the comfortable silence between you.

You both notice when the sounds of movement in the kitchen stop.

“so, _weed._ ” Sans’ voice comes, and both of you freeze, sharing a quick glance between you before simultaneously deciding that making any kind of noise at this point would be _bad_.

There’s a childish giggle that makes you squeeze your hands into tight, shaking fists, your heart rate spiking into dangerous territory. “Yeeees~?”

You glance nervously at the door, silently asking Ellie if she thinks you can make it back outside without being noticed -- you have the feeling that this is going to be a conversation you _don’t_ want to eavesdrop on. Ellie’s crest feathers are flared -- she’s spooked and uncomfortable -- but she shakes her head, wide-eyed. The door is in direct view from the kitchen doorway, and if Sans is at the singular window in the kitchen (beside the fridge, a tiny little thing that pokes out into the snowy alley on the side of their house) then he’d be in a direct line of sight of the door.

“the hell was that?” Sans’ voice is low, and you shiver at the warning edge to it.

“You really have to ask~?” Flowey’s voice is mockingly innocent. “And here I thought you were aware when timeline swaps happened.”

“ _why_ _the hell_ ,” Sans growls  -- you’re trembling, you can _feel_ the way the air has shifted, the open danger in the air, “did you _prompt_ one?”

You’re barely breathing, looking at Ellie with wide eyes. You don’t understand what’s happening.

“Oh, like you weren’t _wondering_ yourself if she’d be able to do something, like the kid.” Flowey’s tone is still innocently cheerful -- he’s _intentionally_ trying to get Sans upset. “There’s really only one way to find that out, you know. The power’s only released when the Soul fully shatters. I just actually _tested_ it. Besides, if she hadn’t been able to do anything, then we could go free!”

Sans lets out a strangled sound, “well congratulations, you proved that she can reset too.”

“Oh,” Flowey lets out another giggle, “But didn’t you notice? I don’t think she can. Not like the kid.”

The silence is chilling, just for a moment. “what do you mean?”

“The kid always went _all_ the way back. Couldn’t keep ‘em dead, sure, but they always wound up back in the Ruins, or farther back, before they fell.” Flowey sounds too cheerful to be anything but malicious, “They’d lose months of time, sometimes. You probably don’t remember much of those big lost time chunks. At least, not as clearly as, say…” There’s a downright sneer in his voice now, “...a jump back of twenty minutes.”

There’s a blackness toying at the edge of your perception, something terrifying and sinister and too much like comprehension for your liking. Your mind is racing -- flickers of thought, of walking alone in Snowdin Woods, of Flowey appearing. Further back, the sense of confusion Sans had tried so desperately to hide, like you weren’t what he had expected. Flowey’s cheerful deflection of _Sorry, I thought you were someone else._

The nagging sense of familiarity in the face of a child you _knew_ for a fact you had _never seen before in your life_ . The _expectant_ look that they had had. Their uneasy wariness when you made an obvious move to interfere -- like you were doing something you weren’t _supposed_ to be doing.

You swear to God, if there is some _fucking time travel bullshit_ going on you’re just going to… to...

You don’t know what you’re going to do.

Flowey continues into the frigid silence, and you’re trembling openly now, staring straight ahead at the wall and not seeing anything. “She’s not the same, surely you’ve noticed. Not red enough. Not enough determination to override everything, like the kid. Best that she can do,” there’s a jeer in his voice, “is Load very erratic Save Points.”

“then.” Sans’s voice has gone fainter, like he’s clinging for some sort of fortitude and it’s not all there anymore. “then we’re still moving forward.”

You’re _definitely_ not fucking okay with the mixture of hope and dread and desperation bubbling under his tone. That tone spells bad news to you, speaks of a want that’s too delicate to acknowledge, too precious to have torn away. He’s afraid to even want it. You’re afraid of what would happen if it _was_ taken away.

“Personally, I’d be more worried about that.” Flowey’s tone is gleeful. “Sure, she seems nice… but at least some of her choices stick, and she hasn’t tried to leave Snowdin yet~”

There’s the sound of gleeful giggling, which quickly disappears, but Sans is silent. His silence is suffocating. You close your eyes and force yourself to take slow, shallow breaths, counting in the back of your mind and forcing your heartbeat to slow. All at once, you know what you have to do.

You stand, so slowly, and pad silently over to one of the doors underneath the stairs, pulling it open carefully to not break the silence and hiding in the bathroom. You tug it closed behind you -- again carefully -- then move to the toilet, and flush it.

The sound seems like it’s echoing, cutting through the silence without mercy, and you glance at Ellie with too-calm stillness.

“Act like you’ve been dozing,” you murmur, turning on the sink and scrubbing at your hands. “Like your scouting trip was tiring, and you’ve just been hanging out in my hood.”

She’s staring up at you, still wide-eyed, but you feel gratified when you see her suck in a shaky breath, and nod, and hop over into your hood, closing her eyes and ducking her head under her wing. The weight of her is soothing. Her trust even moreso. You’ve given her an out so that she has no suspicion on her, and now you just need to play your own part.

For a few seconds, you stare down at your hands under the stream of water.  _Out, damned spot._ You think, a little inanely, before ducking your head.  _Strange, to know what she must have felt. Living a lie. It really could drive you mad, in the long run._

You look up at yourself in the mirror, and plant your best retail smile onto your face -- nothing is wrong. Everything is normal. You were in the bathroom the entire time that conversation was taking place, you didn’t overhear any single _fucking_ thing. You’re not assimilating a new cornucopia of information, and you’re certainly not aware of the fact that _you apparently fucking died and time traveled today, **in that fucking order** _.

You let out a breath which is somehow not trembling, and turn back to the door, starting to hum again, to add to the effect. Something to keep your mind from hyper-focusing on everything while you need to act normal.  _Help me understand, the best is yet to come..._

Sans is back out in the living room when you re-emerge, smiling again -- there’s not a trace of unease in his slouched position on the couch, or in the expression he’s giving you, and you can feel your stomach twist in knots. It... alarms you, a little, that he's so good at hiding his emotions. Nonetheless, you make yourself walk over to him without hesitating, and sit down beside him, carefully cradling the apparently dozing Ellie in your hood to rest her on the back of the couch.

“She had a busy day.” you murmur, making your smile soft and fond -- not a hard task; at least you don’t have any reason to question trusting Ellie yet.

“guess we’ll have to be quieter,” he replies back in an equally soft tone, reaching for the remote. “wanna watch a movie until paps gets back and ruins the quiet?”

You nod, mostly because a movie would be an excuse to not have to talk, and a distraction.

“kay.” he nods, flicking the TV on and lowering the volume all in one quick flick of the remote, “everything is mettaton, just so you know.”

You don’t have the time or the energy to question what he means by that like you usually would. It doesn’t take long to figure it out yourself -- every channel he flips through seems to be featuring one particular boxy robot, in cooking shows and feigned dramas, and newscasts and movies and game shows.

He settles on some sort of courtroom drama movie that seems to be just starting, and you both settle into a… semi-comfortable silence. You don’t break it, and just try not to make it any more obvious, focusing on the television screen in front of you without actually paying attention to the movie itself. You have a feeling you’re not the only one -- both of you have a lot to think about right now.

 _So…_ your rational mind starts. _Time travel is a thing._

 _A thing that Sans knew about._ Your irrational mind retorts. _A thing he clearly has no intent of talking to me about, even though it affects me._

 _Can I still even be friends with him?_ The Interpersonal Relationships section of your personality questions.

 _Relationships, even friendships, do take trust…_ your Hormones reluctantly admit.

 _...I met him yesterday. He has no reason to trust me. I don’t even know if we can be_ considered _friends yet._ You gnaw on the inside of your cheek, working unhelpfully toward forming a bleeding canker sore instead of biting your lip in an effort not to be obvious. _And I… still don’t have all the information. Can’t make rash assumptions._

 _So how do I proceed?_ Your Professional Image section, as always, is all business. You feel yourself deferring control automatically to the only portion of yourself that seems to have itself together. _Am I going to confront the issue, or…_

You flicker the barest glance out of the corner of your eye at him and see him glancing nervously toward you as well. You turn your eyes back to the TV, pretending you saw nothing.

 _I don’t know._ Surprisingly, it’s your Interpersonal Relationships section that speaks up with the definitive answer. _The ball is in his court. He knows he can talk to me. It’s his choice how much detail he goes into when he does. I can’t push too hard, not again._ You take a slow breath, gnawing your cheek bloody, and swallow the quick-welling bloody saliva in your mouth. The bitter taste grounds you.

 _But I definitely have to find out more._ Your rational part realizes with a measure of dread.

For a moment, your thoughts stop. You know -- you _know_ that you know -- what thought had occurred to you, even if you hadn’t given it a voice from any of your imagined parts. You mentally hear your irrational part swallow, before voicing it.

_Flowey knows._

_Fuck._ The rest of you agrees. You can already think of all of the possible arguments against it but you already know they’ll be in vain. You’re stupid, and you’re stubborn, and you _know_ this is a bad idea but _goddamnit_ it’s the only one you have.

Unless you figure out some other way, you’re pretty much just _going to_ eventually seek out the damn weed and get answers.

The door slams open, interrupting your pathetic mental beat down, making you squeak and jump in place, and Ellie lets out a tiny squawk of muted terror, attempting to leap out of your hood and getting a talon caught in the fabric. Your hood winds up following her attempted escape, bringing her in a stupidly perfect arc _right into your face_. You’re pulled forward off of the couch and both of you hit the floor hard.

Once she goes still, you both just kind of. Stay there.

You slowly bring a hand up to untangle her talons, trying to pretend that you’re not dying of embarrassment right now. Once both of you are free, you sit up, push your hood back, and gather her into your hands. You stand.

“...that didn’t happen.” You say, very calmly, staring at the wall so that you’re not looking at either skeleton brother. You’re pretty sure your face is about to melt off. Papyrus had frozen in the doorway as soon as you hit the floor.

“what?” Sans immediately falls into your defense, “i didn’t see anything.”

“NEITHER DID I.” Papyrus is equally quick to your defense.

“Good.” your voice is faint, but you take a deep breath. “...I’m going for a walk.”

You manage to squeeze past Papyrus before either of them can think of anything else to say.


	14. Coping Mechanisms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy St. Pat's! Hope all y'all are wearing green! #pleasedontpinchme
> 
> A long overdue Ellie/MC centric chapter, and some basic soul information for MC.

You hold yourself together until you and Ellie are at the bridge into the woods again, but by that moment, neither of you can quite stand it anymore. Ellie is the one who breaks first, letting out a strangled whine that matches the sound bubbling in the back of your throat.

You stop just before the bridge, sitting down and then laying down in the snow,  starting upward into the grey expanse of ‘sky’ above you.

“I'm sorry.” Your voice is blank when you say it. It's not trembling, it's not overly emotional. You're too drained to make it anything but a statement of fact. You're too tightly wound to let anything go right now,  you're not sure you'll be able to stop.

“No, I'm sorry.” Ellie has hopped onto your chest, and has curled herself into a tiny fluffy ball of rumpled feathers. You're pretty sure you should be questioning why helping her smooth out her feathers is so soothing to you as well, but you don't.  You're just automatically brushing them down again. “I'm the one who freaked out.”

“We both freaked out,” you shake your head, “I'm sorry that all this is happening.”

“It's not your fault.” She leans into your hands,  nipping lightly with her beak at your fingertips. “Honestly, you're doing okay.”

_You're doing okay._

_It's not your fault._

Your throat closes off, and you let out a choked off sob. You don't feel like you're doing okay. You are so completely in over your head for this situation, and worse,  you can't entirely convince yourself that it isn't really unconnected to you.

Because damn it, somehow you're in the main character slot right the fuck now, and you can practically feel the fact that the stupid RPG storyline is unfolding around you. There's monsters trapped underground all trying to kill you to get ahold of your Soul (You're even thinking of it in capital letters, for Christ's sake), you're best friends with a bird and crushing on a skeleton, you're terrified of a _buttercup with a face_ , and now there's time travel.  Because of course there is.

Ellie is forced off of your chest when you roll onto your side, curling into fetal position and cradling your head between your hands. You can’t do this. You can’t. This is too much and you’re so small in a situation that’s much larger than you are, and pretending like nothing is wrong has gotten you _nowhere_.

_You’re going to die down here._

_You already have._

_You’re going to die over and over and over again and there’s nothing you can do to prevent it._

“Oh stars.” Ellie is right in front of your face, pressing her feathery head up against the bridge of your nose, “No, no. Not again. No, come on, stay with me.”

You’re shaking all over, your eyes closed as tightly as they can be. Tears are streaming down your face and you’re sobbing into the snow, wheezing pitifully as the entirety of everything piles up onto your mind and you _break_.

You pull your hands free from your head, cradling her close, pressing your forehead against hers and continuing to sob. You know that she thinks you’re having another panic attack, but this is entirely different. You’re not dissociating, you’re entirely in control of yourself right now -- you’re just breaking down.

“I’m here.” you shake your head against hers, struggling to breathe between sobs. “I’m here. I don’t wanna be, but I’m here.”

You can’t have her worrying about a panic attack that you’re not having. You just can’t. It’s not fair to her and it’s not helpful to you and you refuse to let her hurt for longer than necessary.

She lets out the softest croon you’ve ever heard from her, a trembling, unbelievably sad thing filled with understanding, and presses closer, spreading her wings to cover your face. Your vision goes soft and warm and dark, and you hear her chirping a soft tune. She can’t do much, but she can protect you from the world for just a few moments.

Slowly, your crying stops. You remain curled up, eyes closed, breathing shaky.

“I’ve got you.” Ellie murmurs, trilling out soft notes of what you think might be some sort of monster lullaby. “I promise, I’ve got you. You’re safe with me. You will always be safe with me, so long as it’s in my power.” She preens at your hair, “I’ll tear apart the Barrier myself if I have to.”

You let out a weak, watery laugh, trailing off into a drained sigh. “I believe you, Ellie Bean.”

She goes quiet, pressing her beak against the bridge of your nose. “...I don’t know why you trust me.” she says softly, “I’m a monster too. Statistically, you have no reason to.”

“Simple reason,” you sniffle, opening your eyes to look at her, “As far as I can tell, you haven’t lied to me or tried to get me killed yet.” You slowly let out one more shaky breath, before rolling back onto your back, and pushing into a sitting position. You offer her a tired, but true smile. “ _Statistically,_ an anomaly like that deserves to be observed before any conclusion is reached.”

“Was… was that a joke?” she blinks. “...you just went from sobbing uncontrollably to cracking jokes.”

“Haven’t you figured it out yet?” you let out another soft, almost hysterical giggle. “I’m joking so I don’t fall any further apart. It’s… it’s a coping mechanism. I...” you hiccup, taking a few seconds to breathe again, before quirking your mouth in another forced smile. “I’ve been dealing with severe anxiety disorder for a long time. I have a heightened risk factor for panic attacks in stressful situations, and generalized social anxiety. Sometimes… it feels like the only way I can interact with people is through a mask of professionalism. S-So I’m good at recognizing masks.”

Her eyes have gone wide. “So… you feel like you can’t open up to others or make friends easily.”

“Mhm.” You nod, “I’m… I’m also pretty much _always_ scared.” You wrap your arms around yourself. “Scared of messing up… of saying the wrong thing… scared that--” Another nervous swallow, “Scared that someone else will figure out how scared I am, literally all the time.”

Ellie is staring at you, a strange expression in her eyes. You see her lower her gaze to the center of your chest, just under your collar bones -- the spot where your Soul always appears.

“...but…” she murmurs, obvious confusion in her voice. “...but you’re _orange_.”

You blink at her, tilting your head.

She looks up to meet your eyes. “I… it’s an old folk tale, but it’s pretty prevalent. There’s a belief that human Soul colors could define the kind of person they were, that… your personal traits shaped the magic that your Soul produced, and changed the frequency of its light.” She hops up onto one of your knees. “Your soul isn’t… singular, like we’re used to. You’re a mix between red and orange. But we’ve always associated red with Determination, and orange with Bravery.” She lets out a trilling chirp again, “I always thought… you were like a storybook heroine. Determined and Brave.”

You stare down at her, blankly, for a moment. You’re certain there has to be some sort of mistake. You’re not Brave, you’re not Determined. You’re not special. You’re not a heroine.

You’re just… scared.

You lean forward, shaking your head and pressing your forehead against your free knee, letting out a quivering breath. “...Well.” you murmur, somehow steadily, despite the tremulous fluttering of your Soul and your heart. “Life isn’t a story.”

(It feels like a lie. Life is nothing but stories.  But _your_ life, and _this_ story, are just not a match you want to make.)

You breathe in. Denial. Ignorance. Joking around. You breathe out.

These are coping mechanisms you know and trust. You just… you just want to get through this. Somehow. You just want to reach the point where everything has settled into a new normal again.

Screw the RPG plot. Screw saving the world, or changing it, or making a big important impact to the apparent storyline. Screw _dying to fucking daisies_. If you’re trapped down here, then so-goddamn-be-it. You’re going to live the perfectly, obscenely normal, low-stress life you were always meant for. And the next time you see Flowey, you resolve to be carrying a pair of gardening shears to scare him off.

Because, fuck it, right? You’d rather be a goddamn NPC than the heroine. NPCs don’t have to save the world. NPCs don’t have to kill anyone.

You’re going to pay rent, and go to work and go shopping occasionally and buy or make gifts for Christmas, and try to teach Papyrus how to cook something other than spaghetti, and Sans something other than quiches. You’re going to sing obnoxiously loudly in the shower until one or both of the skeleton brothers yells at you to stop, and curl up on the couch with hot cocoa and watch silly robot movies. You’re going to teach Ellie all of the stupid funny songs you’ve picked up from Pandora over the years, and convince her to sing them with you at the most groan-inducing moments. You’re going to get into snowball fights with the kids in town, make bad jokes, get drunk every once in awhile. Hell, maybe you’ll… maybe you’ll even date eventually.

The point is-- you’re done. You’re done with with the storyline. You’re done with playing along, with letting other people shoehorn you into a role you just don’t want. And in the end, you’re just… going to try to put these horrible couple of days behind you.

You lift your head, squaring your shoulders, and look Ellie in the eye. “Come on.” you say, “Let’s go back. It’s freezing out here.”

* * *

 

You’re pretty sure the two skeleton brothers are walking on eggshells around you now, for some reason, but you do your best to ignore the fragile tension in the air when you and Ellie slip back inside of their house. You take a deep breath and gently lift Ellie off of your shoulder, letting her hop and flutter over to the couch.

“I’m… going to go take a shower.” you announce softly, walking over to grab your bag to dig through it for one of the soft pants and shirt combos. Maybe if you give them twenty minutes or so they’ll relax. Or at least maybe they’ll get tense enough that you can actually call them out on it without feeling like a jackass. With any luck luck at all, you’ll be able to fix this problem before it snowballs out of control.

(You distractedly resolve to tell that one to Sans later -- you think he’ll enjoy it.)

You bundle the items up in your arms and walk into the bathroom, closing the door behind you with a soft click. And then your shoulders slump, and you fall gently back against the door, closing your eyes and finally acknowledging the mental exhaustion that has settled over your form. You need this time just as much as you think they need it.

You stand under the warm spray in the shower for several minutes longer than strictly necessary, soaking up the warmth and willing the ache to fall away from your muscles. This is a relief. This is a ritual. This is a reminder.

You tilt your head back and douse your face under the spray, letting the water blaze trails of liquid relief across your cheeks, washing away the tears and letting your thoughts flow away with them. You let your aches go, and you remind yourself that no matter how bad it gets...

no matter how much your world may feel like it’s ending in the moments when your mind turns upon itself...

no matter how many staggered breaths you have to pull like needles between your teeth...

no matter how many moments you lose to trembling hands and a quavering soul...

There is one truth you cling to with every fiber of your being. There is _always_ an end.

_Eventually,_ you think, feeling the comforting familiarity of your routine chase away the last of the chill that the warm water can’t soothe. _Eventually, I will be okay._

* * *

When you step back out into the living room, softly swaddled in fabric that holds warmth like a fur coat, you see that they’ve left a spot on the couch for you, right between the two skeleton brothers. You smile tiredly and walk over to flop down into it, resting your head against the back of the couch near Ellie’s perch. She’s already snagged your sweatshirt and made her nest out of it, and has bundled herself down into it.

“So.” you break the relative silence, appropriating some of the quilt that Sans is hogging and bumping your head against Ellie, who gives a soft, affectionate trill. “What are we watching?”

Papyrus launches into an intense and enthusiastic description of the Mettaton movie currently playing on the television, and you do your best to pay attention to the apparent nuances of the storyline and to nod at the appropriate moments. Beneath the blanket, you tentatively brush your fingers against Sans’ hand, and are relieved when he turns it so that you can twine your fingers with his. This, at least, isn’t something that you’ve lost to omission. He’s still willing to be a solid, tactile comfort to you. Ellie starts sleepily running her beak through your towel-dried hair, and between that, the slowly relaxing atmosphere, the warmth coming from Sans beside you and the quiet in your own mind, it doesn’t take you long to drift out of focus with your head leaning heavily onto Sans’ shoulder.

Your sleeping schedule has always been a bit more tremulous than others. There was a period between the ages of fifteen and sixteen where your parents had had to pull you out of school, and you’d had to make up the course credits for your diploma through night classes, simply because… well, you’d had your first anxiety induced stress breakdown, and your sleeping schedule had been shot, and it took several weeks and a hospital visit to finally stop dropping off into narcoleptic naps and to sleep through the night again.

Your work, at least, had always been malleable -- you’d been able to work around your shitty sleeping habits, and could almost pretend to be a competent human being. You can vaguely tell you’re going to have to get some sort of a handle on it as soon as possible, considering you’re going to start a new job tomorrow (oh, god) and it was fixed hours.

But for now, you’re back to falling asleep whenever your body is tired enough to do so. Even when you’re the first to drift, you’re the last to actually fall asleep. You hover somewhere near wakefulness for a few hours, drifting up again near midnight. Sans is a solid, comfortable mass against your side, his ribs rising and falling against your arm, and his head has dropped down to rest against yours.

You sleepily glance up toward him, studying his face, because you’re not sure if you’ll get another chance like this. With his features actually relaxed, he looks much more tired than his usual “relaxed” smile.

He’s also drooling into your hair but you can’t bring yourself to be upset about it. At least he isn’t snoring right into your ear -- you’ve been in apartments with loudly snoring neighbors, and it was objectively The Worst. (Obviously discounting that one apartment with the overly-sexually-active neighbors. That one hadn’t even made it to month 2 of your usual four month stay.)

(Vaguely, you kind of wonder _how_ it is that he’s drooling, before remembering the fact that he can do plenty of things he shouldn’t be able to. Like swallowing, and teleporting. Did you mention teleporting? Because he teleports.)

Papyrus has curled up into the other side of the couch, his bony legs having gotten hilariously tangled with yours, and he’s letting out soft little snores of his own. You flex your bare feet against his leg and he lets out a half-giggled _nyehe_. He’s just as warm as Sans is, if a lot more solid feeling, but less… _filled out_. The texture of his bones against the pads of your toes is rougher than the texture Sans seems to sport. Sans is _ridiculously_ smooth and unblemished, almost like porcelain.

You turn your head minutely, careful not to wake Sans, and sight Ellie on the top of the couch, curled up into a snug little ball of fabric, her head ducked under her wing and letting out soft notes with every other breath. The faint blue light glowing from the snowy ‘night’ outside of the window casts her plumage in silver and gray. She has somehow managed to pull the hood of your sweatshirt up like a blanket over herself.

You feel a surge of something warm and happy in your soul, surrounded by these people who care so much about you. You might have only met them a few days ago, but… You actually feel safe. It’s a rare feeling.

You smile and curl up closer to Sans, letting your eyes close again, and are pleasantly surprised when sleep finds you. Usually when you ‘wake’ in the middle of the night, you’ll be up for hours before you can sleep again. It’s unbelievably nice to be able to fall directly into a deep sleep for once.

Your hand tightens around Sans’ before you drift off entirely. You think you hear a sleepy murmur of contentment and feel him squeeze back.


	15. A Child of Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are tiny hands that have caused much of this grief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ITALICS
> 
> ITALICS EVERYWHERE
> 
> [Jazz hands]

_So… You’re back here again._

The world around your consciousness is empty, a deep blackness that you’re almost certain should feel suffocating and terrifying. You remember blackness like this, emptiness like this, clinging to your skin and sinking into your eyes and draining the light from your soul, and the pure instinctual terror it had ignited in you. And yet… here, the blankness is almost soothingly soft, the consistency of well-worn cotton and almost seeming to carry its own light. You feel less like you’re in the depths of a black hole and instead are floating in an empty sky, with the last bits of light illuminating you and bolstering your own glow.

The soft orange light emanating from your core casts a corona of flickering firelight in every direction from where you stand, and as you look around, you sight a second light glowing like a dying supernova in the middle distance. It’s a deep ruby red, low and dull, but still a distinct shade, centered around a young preteen child who is sitting cross-legged, staring at you.

You recognize their voice, like an echo, like a dream that you can’t quite remember. Their face is starting to lose the pudginess of childhood, and take on the angular cut of adulthood. Their cheekbones are well defined -- you’ve known people who would pay hundreds of dollars for cheekbones like that, ‘noble’ cheekbones, you’ve heard them called -- and their posture is intriguingly proper. Their hands are folded primly in their lap, and their eyes have locked onto yours with an intensity that borders on terrifying.

_You sure do respond to tugs easily,_ they continue, smiling a broken-glass-sharp smile, and though you can see their mouth moving, you still can’t quite register their words as ‘speaking’. _I thought it’d be a lot more difficult to forge a connection between our Souls, especially on such a strenuous link as shared Determination. Yours is secondary at best, a gained trait, not inborn. Not like Frisk._

_Who are you?_ You ask into the darkness, and though you can feel your mouth moving, can hear the words, you can’t feel that any sound has actually thrummed through your vocal chords.

_Unimportant._ They wave a hand in dismissal. _What’s important now is you. And how you progress._ They fold their hands together in their lap again, still giving you that unnervingly cheerful smile. _You chose this path when you interfered. Many thanks, but we don’t want it back unless absolutely necessary._

_We…_ You step over to them without waiting for prompting, sitting down in front of them so that you’re a similar height, and not looking down on them. _You mean, you and… Frisk, right? The kid I tried to help?_

_One and the same._ The child nods, _To the point, though… you’ve died._ They lift a hand to point at the center of your chest, where the shimmering glow of your soul materializes as though it had been summoned. There’s a faint gray spot at the top of the heart, as though a piece had chipped off and new ‘scarring’ had formed. _Flowey killed you. And I didn’t account for the thought that you might have enough Determination to_ **_refuse_ ** _. So we’ve got a few new pathways opened up to us, on how to proceed._ Their smile isn’t entirely benign.

_You’re… going to have to go into a bit of detail, please._ You sigh, feeling once more extremely out of your depth. _Everyone keeps talking about Determination, and Bravery, and the importance of my soul, and the color… and I just, I don’t know anything._

_Of course you don’t._ The child shrugs. _You found out that monsters exist, that magic is real, and that you’re doomed to die under a mountain all of_ **_two_ ** _days ago. That’s a lot to try and come to terms with in a very short amount of time. But that’s not the point of this conversation. The point is to choose your path from here._

They hold out a hand to you, gesturing toward your soul, and you hesitate, before nodding. The little bronze heart floats toward their fingers when they bend one toward themself, until it’s floating above their open palm, putting off little sparks of orange light that brush against their pale skin.

_This is a story that has been building toward its climax for a little over a century, and you just literally fell right into the endgame._ They shrug again, examining your soul from every angle. _It’s not fair to expect you to take on a burden like that without warning… at least, it isn’t fair to fail to offer you an out._ They trace a fingertip along the gray area, and a full shiver runs down your spine. _I’ll admit that something like you happening was what I hoped for, but… well, Frisk doesn’t think it’s quite as fortuitous as I do. So, depending on your choice, I can let you proceed… or I can still reset. Send Frisk, and you, and everything back to that tour in the caves. It’s easier to go back to the flowerbed, but I_ **_can_ ** _push back further. I’ve done it before, more times than I care to admit._ They offer one dry, humorless grin. _You’ll feel a sense of deja-vu, but it should pass._

_But… why?_ You ask back once they seem to have said their piece.

_Why?_ They repeat, clearly wanting you to elaborate.

_Why would you… why would either of you…_ you frown. _Why offer to take the burden back, if it’s been so hard for you? Both of you have an opportunity to leave all of this behind._

_Do we?_ The preteen lifts your soul slightly above their hand until it’s level with your eyesight. _There’s always going to be a part of you that knows, now. A part that knows that something terribly sad is going on under this mountain. A part that feels their pain, a part that won’t be satisfied until the monsters’ torment is done. Exposure to the monsters and the magic they exude is like an addiction -- once you’ve tried it, you can never forget it._ They relax their hand, and your soul floats back over to you, settling back in your chest.

_Then I can’t just give up on this yet._ You point out, softly, and note that their eyes snap to yours again. _I’m just as much involved in this as either of you._

_You’ll die more._ They say it as calmly as if they were stating that the sky was blue, or that the sun rose in the east. _It’s not even a question of if, but a question of when. It does damage that can’t be undone. And… eventually, you may not have enough Determination to pull your Soul back together. Or enough Bravery._

You’re quiet for several long seconds, staring at your hands folded in your lap, trying to figure out how to articulate your thoughts.

_I will give you this choice each time._ They announce, pushing to their feet and holding their hand out to you. _Please understand that you_ **_always_ ** _have a choice. We’ll be making the most of any moment of reprieve we’ll get, but you choose when your involvement ends._ Their eyes soften, becoming so tired that you have to fight down the urge to wrap them up in a quilt and make them hot cocoa. _You have the choice to end your entrapment. So...Will you flee?_

You think of Toriel, hurting so deeply that her arms felt leaden around your ribs, and how she had held onto you like she was afraid _you_ might break. You think of Sans, trying so hard to fight against his own insecurities, trying not to let his fear break him, and how despite his fear he was always quick with a joke. You think of Papyrus, furiously optimistic and generous, trying to single-handedly prove that good still exists in the world, even when everything was going wrong. You think of Ellie, the way that she’s immediately come to worry about you as something precious, something to be protected. The way that she can’t hide her feelings. The soft croon of comfort and care she had given you without a second thought when you needed it.

_I have a choice. It’s just an obvious one,_ you answer back, certain, your thoughts drifting past all of the monsters you’ve met thus far. How can you possibly turn your back on them? _Thank you for the offer. But I have to politely decline._

You stand up without taking their hand and _then_ reach forward to shake it, offering a tired grin of your own. The preteen peers up at you with something like amusement in their eyes.

_I wonder if you’ll break._ They muse, almost conversationally. _Like we did._

_Kid,_ you continue grinning toward them, a fond, sardonic thing. _You can’t break what’s already broken._

_If you say so._ They shrug, _No offense intended, but it doesn’t really matter to me if you die._ They turn, looking out into the darkness beyond themself, and you follow their gaze to see a smaller child, bundled up in a too-big sweater, looking so tired that your soul aches. It’s the child you saved -- it’s Frisk. They don't have a corona of light around them like the preteen does, or if they do then its very dim, and you can't make out the color. _I’ve got someone I care about more._ The preteen murmurs, their tone softer, openly worried. _And if you die… sure, it’s sad. But… as far as I’m concerned, at least it isn't Frisk again. And if you’re_ **_willing_ ** _to die, then…_  They look up at you. _Nothing personal, but I won’t lose any sleep over it._

You hesitate, before resting a hand on their shoulder, _I won’t begrudge you that. I’m nobody to you, and you obviously care quite a lot about them._

They shrug your hand away, looking up at you with a clouded frown. _I care about a lot of people. So be careful who you hurt, because I_ **_will_ ** _know about it._

You bring your hand back to your side, biting your lip.

_It’s…_ they hesitate for a second, before glancing toward Frisk again. _It’s entirely_ **_nothing_ ** _personal. But being killed or hurt by people who you think could be your friends… it changes people. And desperation makes people do stupid things._ They shake their head, _I want Frisk to heal, but..._ Their expression darkens, and they turn to you with a downright chilling glare. **_Not_ ** _at the expense of any more monster lives. Your life is worth less than nothing to me. I would shatter your soul across the infinite timelines before I let anyone be hurt again. Do I make myself clear?_

You peer at them, before sighing and nodding, and turning toward the smaller child, who is inching toward the two of you with a nervous frown. They lift their hands to start signing, and oddly, their words rise up in your mind without the need for translation.

_Are you… upset, miss?_ They ask you.

You smile gently down at both children, sighing, _This… isn’t what I expected when I chose to act and interfere, but that doesn’t mean I regret my decision. I’m not upset. Nervous, sure… but not upset._ You offer the younger child your hand, and they take it with a curious tilt of the head. _Even though I didn’t have all of the information at the time, I made the decision that I could best make. If the choice lies between my own life and someone else’s… especially a kid’s… then I’ll always pick the other person._

You pull them forward gently into a hug. _So take care of yourself, kid, and don’t beat yourself up for my sake. You’re worth it. Never doubt that. I don’t know you, but I know that every child’s life is precious and worth sacrificing my own if I have to._

You release them, and they step back to stand next to the slightly older child.

_Please be okay._ Frisk signs up at you, biting their lip. _Please don’t hurt anyone. Please just… don’t kill, and try not to be killed. And… thank you… for trying to save me. I meant to fall, and I’ll… I’ll keep trying, if you want to stop, but…_ they drop their face into their hands, taking a shuddering breath, and even without signing, their voice echoes around you. _…but I’m so tired of resetting, down there._

You rest a hand on top of their head, carding your fingertips through their messy hair. _Rest, then._ You order softly. _I can handle things down here for a while._

They look up at you through their bangs and give you a hesitant, grateful smile. The preteen standing beside them gently swings a hand over to link their fingers with Frisk’s, and they turn together, walking around you and off into the darkness, until your own softly glowing candle flame is the only thing in sight.

Then that fades too, enveloping you in comforting, deep, dreamless darkness.


	16. A Kindred Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected guest appears for an unplanned but nonetheless pleasant chat.

It’s 6:53 in the morning, and you are  _ dead. _

You’re only moderately less dead than the rest of the occupants in the house; Sans is somehow hanging halfway off the couch and Papyrus has sprawled further across the length of it, both of them  _ entirely _ dead to the world. Ellie’s so far tangled up in your hoodie that you can only barely make out a few brown feathers sticking out. And you…

You need breakfast. And a shower. And to actually wake up. And maybe coffee, but you’ll settle for a nice cup of tea if it comes down to it.

You carefully extract yourself from the tangle of limbs and bodies that are littering the couch, stretching until you can feel your spine pop in several places and until your muscles complain about the prolonged stretch. Then you make your way over to the kitchen, bleary eyed and sluggish.

You’re pretty much running on autopilot as you search through the cabinets in the kitchen for anything remotely useful to the task of waking up. It’s not difficult to find a kettle, and you’re not awake enough to think twice when you find a canister labeled “golden flower tea leaves - from asgore” in Sans’ handwriting (at least, you’re pretty much assuming it has to be his handwriting, since it’s all in lowercase and looks nothing like Papyrus’.).

You fill the kettle with water from the sink and place it on the stovetop to start heating up, pulling a few cups down from one of the cabinets and measuring out a spoonful of tea leaves into one of them. You’ll wait until the others wake up to see whether or not they want any. Once that’s done, you settle back against the kitchen counter.

Your phone, which was sitting on the counter behind you on a charging cable that Sans had mysteriously produced for you at some point, lets out an obscenely cheerful little blip of recognition that it’s passed 7 o’clock, your usual and much-hated alarm for yourself. You reach back and jab the alarm off without looking, pressing a hand over your mouth and yawning wide enough to feel the way your jaw shifts against the rest of your skull.

The kettle starts steaming, and you shift it off of the burner before it can start to whistle and wake everyone up. You’re just finishing the process of stirring your cup of tea when there’s a hesitant knock at the front door. And being that you’re literally still shuffling around barefoot tempted to crawl back in between the two skeletons and go back to sleep, you’re not exactly thinking straight when you pick up your cup and go over to answer it.

You blink owlishly outwards for a few seconds, before realizing that the monster at the door actually stands almost a foot below your line of sight, curled in on themself and looking nervous. You blink at them again, not quite making the mental connection that you’re actually answering the door, before shaking your head and trying to get your mental pistons firing.

“U-Um…” the monster (a yellow lizard-type monster with flared frills framing the back of their (her? Maybe? probably??) head and bundled up in about the thickest, most gaudy possible lumpy polka dotted sweater) raises a hand in a half-hearted wave, “Hello.”

“...hi,” you mumble back, tilting your head slightly. “Uh. Can I help you?”

“O-Oh! Sorry, I-I, um…” she fiddles with her hands. “M-May I come in? It’s quite, er, cold out here, and I’m…” she gestures at herself, and you mentally kick yourself, because of  _ course _ she’d be cold, she’s reptilian, reptiles are cold blooded. God, fuck, it would be nice if your brain would work on occasion, you're a monumentally obtuse idiot sometimes. 

“Oh, yes, of course, um. Are you a friend of Sans’ and Papyrus’?” You duck to the side, allowing her entry, and offer her your already prepared cup of tea without thinking about it. On the surface, you would never do this sort of thing, but the monsters all seem so nice (with exceptions) that it honestly surprises you. Plus, you've got a good gut instinct for this sort of thing, even when you're insanely out of it. She looks startled, but nods and takes it from your proffered hands with another tentative smile.  “They’re kind of…” you cast a glance to the right, where the two skeleton brothers and Ellie are still seven different kinds of knocked out, “...unavailable, right now, but …”

“W-Well, I am, to an extent, f-friends with them…?” she trails after you without needing to be prompted as you pad your way back into the kitchen so that this conversation doesn’t wake any of them. “B-But I... well… I w-wasn’t actually, er, visiting… them, at least…?”

You’re really not awake enough to be actively questioning so you just hum a noncommittal sound of questioning interest as you measure and pour a second cup of tea for yourself. “Mm. Someone else in town then?” You stir your cup, moving to lean against the counter again. You’ll really have to bring up the suggestion of having a freestanding table and chairs in the kitchen so that all activities don’t necessarily have to happen in the living room.

“N-No, I did mean to come  _ h-here _ , but… t-to be honest, I, er... w-wanted to m-meet you, if that’s okay?”

You take several long seconds to process this, taking a sip of your tea in the meanwhile, confused. “...well, okay.” you hold out your hand, offering her your name with a sleepy smile.

“I-I’m Dr. Alphys,” she finally says back, uncertainly holding one clawed hand out to grasp lightly at yours. You give her hand one quick shake before taking another sip of your tea. “I-I’m the royal scientist, a-and… well, erm… I h-have observational c-cameras, set up all around the underground…?”

Another thing to process, but you nod, blinking a bit. The tea is helping, and you’re starting to feel a bit more capable of taking on the world without passing out.  “O...kay... “ you hum again, “So, I guess there’s, uh… no use in pretending I’m from here, huh?” She winces and nods, giving you the most tentative, nervous smile you think you’ve ever seen. 

Honestly, you’re kind of relieved that you don’t have to keep up some sort of preservational ruse at the moment. You know that the monsters have -- erm -- that backstory related reason for wanting you dead to take your soul and all (because your life is an RPG now, remember? Fucking hell.), and if she's the royal scientist then she's definitely aware of that backstory reason for wanting you dead. Honestly, if she already  _ knows _ you’re a human and hasn’t even given a testing tug to your soul, then you’re kind of reserving judgment for now. “M’kay.” you shrug one shoulder. “I’m a human. S’whatever. ‘nd I’m usually more... “ you gesture vaguely with one hand, balancing your mug in the other. “...capable of words… b’t t’be honest,  _ fuck _ mornings.”

You’re a little vindictively gratified when you startle a snort out of her, taking another long, satisfying sip of your tea. You think she probably didn't expect you to be so cavalier about it. Honestly, you’d probably be more wary and nervous if you were… actually more awake when this conversation was taking place? More aware of the bubbling anxiety that constantly rests under your skin? But right now you’re still in that pleasantly vague middle ground between actually being a functional dysfunctional human being and the anxiety-free paradise that is actual legitimate sleep. 

“So why’d you wanna meet me?” you finally ask, watching her shift her own cup between her hands.

“W-Well, erm… I-I m-mostly just… the, the cameras, er… I… watch…”

“Sure.” you nod again, rolling with it. “Probably your job.”

“Y-You’re not weirded out?”

You shrug once more, “Not awake enough to be weirded out. Can we get to your point?”

“W-Well, er… I, kind of, was, um… watching, yesterday evening, w-when you were out b-by the bridge. You... kind of had a b-break down? And, then, er, you said some things a-about how, um, how you have s-severe anxiety?”

You blink, looking her over again and finally realizing,  _ oh _ ,  _ of course _ . You mentally kick yourself for not recognizing it sooner. 

The stammering, the nervousness, the way she’s struggling to keep eye contact with you. You put down your mug of tea.

“You relate, I take it?” You ask gently, a soft, tired smile forming on your lips.

“I… yes.” she nods, clicking her claws against the ceramic of the mug held between them. “I-I just wanted to ask… a-are you… okay?”

“Yes.” you nod back, looking down yourself. “I have my hard times, but on the whole I’m okay. For the most part, the worst I have to deal with is fatigue. I’ve gotten fairly good at, y’know, taking the good with the bad. Thank you, though.”

“W-Well, erm.” she’s gone a dark gold at the cheeks and is fidgeting. “Th-That’s good. U-Um, i-if you’re-- e-ever interested… I-I’d like to swap coping tactics, sometime, maybe. Y-You said s-something about having been d-dealing with it for some time...”

“Sure.” you quirk your lip, “Sounds good. I’ll definitely need some new ways of dealing with my stuff, being down here, and all… and I’m sure I can answer some questions if you want.” 

“O-Oh, um…”  She looks pleased, “Would you? I-I admittedly have quite a lot of q-questions about human culture, and… erm… I h-hope you'll be willing to, ah, kind of let me poke and prod a bit?” she blushes again, looking like she's probably berating herself for her word choice. “A-At your soul, I mean. W-We’re not really sure how human souls work.”

You pick up your tea again, taking another sip, “Well, you're not the only ones. If you're willing to let me ask a million and one questions about it, and don't… y'know, do irreparable damage, or kill me, or whatever… then I suppose I don't mind being a lab rat for a bit.”

“R-Really?” she blinks at you, clearly surprised, but you're not just thinking of finding out about your Soul in general terms. You would have to be completely idiotic not to realize that this is a perfect opportunity to figure some shit out about the apparent time-fuckery without resorting to facing down the demon flower, and it's practically fallen right into your lap. “You're very… surprisingly c-comfortable about this.”

You offer one wide, amused grin. “You asked nicely. And I'm planning to mutually pick your brain, so it behooves me to make  _ some _ concessions. Really, I'm okay with the idea, just… y'know, I'm not exactly done  _ using _ my soul?” She snorts,  and your grin widens. “It's a fucked up anxious little thing, but it's mine, and I'm  _ kind of _ fond of it.”

“Ha.” she smiles at you, and her shoulders finally relax. You have a momentary thought appreciating how pretty she looks when she’s not tense. She’s got dimples, and you’ve always had a soft spot for dimples, and her eyes crinkle up a little with her smile. She honestly looks so… sweet, and cute. It’s… kind of eye-opening, really. Are you like that, too? “I can relate,” she continues, softly, taking a sip of her own tea. “So, um… any time you’re dropping by Hotland, I-I guess, we can… um, set something up?”

“Cool.” You nod, “I’ll, uh, probably have Ellie with me, and she’ll probably stare at you suspiciously the entire time, but don’t take it personal. She’s gotten pretty, eh, protective of me.” You raise your mug toward her, giving a short, sleepy giggle, and she smiles again and raises her own. “We can hang out, maybe, make it a girls’ night?”

“I’d like that.” she takes another sip of her tea, finishing off the mug. “S-So, um. That was… kind of all of w-what I wanted to meet with you about, actually. J-Just, sort of, um… introducing myself, and kind of, talking about the anxiety thing, and… to ask about the whole, y’know, mutually beneficial exchange of information…”

“Well, I’m glad I got to meet you,” you smile, “It’s nice to meet a kindred spirit, and it’ll be really nice to have someone to talk to on an equivalent level about… certain experiences.” You down the rest of your tea, glancing over toward the kitchen doorway when you hear the sounds of life coming from the other side.

Sans shuffles into view, yawning and rubbing at his eyes. “who’re you talkin’ t…” he trails off, blinking in obvious confusion, as he catches sight of Alphys. “...alph? what are you doin’ here?”

“O-Oh! Hello, Sans.” she casts a quick glance at you when you gently pry the mug from her hands, gesturing to the kettle again. She nods, and you start preparing her a second serving, humming softly to yourself and giving them both the requisite room for their own conversation. “I, erm, k-kind of wanted to m-meet the human. I-Is that alright?”

“well, uh.” he blinks again, still looking like only half of his pistons are firing. You start preparing him a cup of tea as well, figuring that if he doesn’t want it then you’ll be perfectly happy to drink it yourself. It certainly helped you in your quest for waking up, and you couldn’t exactly complain about the flavor, either. (It also felt really vindictively nice to know that you were getting a sort of roundabout ‘backsies’ against Flowey, even if it was only against the type of flower he was.) “sure, i guess. i mean, i just… wasn’t expecting you, to be honest.” he scratches at the back of his skull, “y’usually don’t come out to snowdin.”

“Would you like some tea, Sans?” You gently interrupt over your shoulder, filling the first cup and feeling very comfortable as you hand it over to Alphys. She offers you a tiny, grateful smile as she accepts it. This entire morning has been almost criminally domestic and you’re entirely okay with it, even if a part of you is nervously waiting for the other shoe to drop. You fill the second cup with a soft smile, glancing up at Sans.

Sans startles, despite your gentle tone, and glances at you almost as though he’d managed to get so caught up in Alphys being there that he forgot that you were also in the room. He seems to fixate on your face for a few seconds, as though your small smile is… not  _ confusing _ , per se, but not quite  _ unexpected _ either… not  _ questionable _ … you’re not sure of a good word to actually pinpoint it. The look on his face is somewhere between startled, thoughtful, and... fascinated, actually.

“u-uh.” he blinks, refocusing, before catching sight of the second mug you’re preparing. “sure…”

You decide not to comment on it, passing the mug over to him. Your fingertips brush against his as he takes it. The brush lasts for almost two seconds before he actually pulls his hands back, and the odd, intense look has returned to his face. He looks kind of like he’s just realized that he’s been presented with his most secret desire and his most hidden fear at the same time, and doesn’t know whether to advance or retreat.

Are you reading too much into it? Probably.

Are you suddenly  _ very much so  _ more awake? Undeniably.

You turn away before the bubbling quagmire of questions and denial can overtake your mind and cloud your expression. Your brain, being awake, has started the usual unending process of questioning everything and simultaneously dismissing any potential good fortune and criticizing any sense of self-worth you have left.

As you normally do, you shove it to the side and attempt to get on with things. No use humoring your redundant, unhelpful thought process.

_ Is he maybe--? _ Your Hormones section whispers traitorously, but is immediately shushed by the majority of the rest of yourself.

**_You_ ** _ can just shut up.  _ Your Rational Self states immediately, because you’re _ not _ thinking about this.

“So, Dr. Alphys--” you start, attempting to move on.

“O-Oh, please, c-call me Alphys.”

“Alphys, then.” You agree, smiling, “Would you like to… I don’t know, swap phone numbers? That way I can text you whenever I wind up in Hotland.”

You note the quick, entirely startled glance at you that Sans immediately tries to hide.

“O-Of course.” she smiles and pulls her own phone out of a pocket in her sweater, handing it over to you so you can punch your number in. You unplug your phone from the charger on the counter behind you and hand it to her as well, before quickly inputting your personal information into hers. Her phone dings while it’s in your hands, a stylized ‘M’ icon popping up on the screen, and you quickly hand it back to her.

“It looks like you have a text.” You point out quickly, feeling your cheeks going pink. “From MTT, I’m sorry, I looked.”

“O-Oh!” she lets out a faint noise of surprise, staring down at her phone, “Goodness, I didn’t mean to stay very long, Mettaton and I had plans…”

“well, then you should probably get going,” Sans speaks up again, though he’s rather subdued. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him looking this off-balanced. “mettaton is, uh, not exactly a patient guy, from what I can tell.”

“Oh, yeah, by all means.” You accept her mug back from her, waving away her apologetic smile. “Go fulfill your previous plans. We can text later.” You see her to the door, shaking her hand as she bundles up again and heads out into the snow once more. Just outside, you can see Papyrus doing (frankly intimidating looking) squats in the snow while Ellie hovers nearby, giggling in amusement. You wish you knew their secret to being so immediately awake, because as far as you know, they were just as asleep as Sans was when you last checked, and both of you are… well, pretty clearly people of into-rest.

(You’ll  _ have _ to tell him that one later.)

You lean against the doorjamb for a few seconds, watching them enjoy themselves in the brisk snowy air, taking another long sip of the golden flower tea before sighing and turning back inside. As much as you’d like to just enjoy your morning before heading off to your first day at work… you know that you have something you need to do.

And Sans, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, clearly knows it too, because he’s looking at you with a nervous expression.

“Sans,” you say softly, letting the door close behind yourself. “Can we talk?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be gentle with your judgements of him, he's just woken up and things aren't happening right.


	17. A Talk You Really Don't Want To Have, But Will Have Anyway

You settle on the couch again, and are intensely grateful when he shuffles over to sit next to you.

“did i do something wrong?” He asks, looking like he's dreading your answer. You glance over at him with a vehement shake of the head. 

“No.  Nothing wrong. I just… wanted to talk, honest. I'm not mad at you… I'm actually just-- kind of worried that you might still be mad at me, honestly.” You gnaw at your lip. “And that you might be… humoring me, more than anything?”

He turns his torso in your direction, the same startled expression forming on his face as the one he'd used at Grillby's. “mad at you?  i'm not mad at you. i… you're...” he gives a helpless looking tilt of the head, struggling to pick out words,  and you bite your lip harder. He's censoring himself.

“Sans,” you interrupt. “Something changed yesterday. I might not know you that well but you're… you went immediately back to being guarded around me. I… I thought, with the conversation in the middle of the night…” you give a short, frustrated giggle, ducking your head down and twirling your finger through your tea. “Not to say that I expected things to immediately be okay, of course, but… I kind of hoped you would at least  _ tell _ me that you're upset with me.”

“i'm not upset with you.”

“ _ Sans… _ ”

“i'm  _ not. _ ” he emphasizes, reaching forward to gently take your hand and squeeze it, just the same way you had when you were trying to convince him that you meant your words. “i’m… upset with a general situation that peripherally involves you.”

You open your mouth to say something back, before shutting it again and looking down at your lap, letting out a sigh. “Okay.” you mumble.

He reaches over to push your chin up with two fingers until you look at him again, clear concern forming on his face. “what is it?”

“It’s nothing.” You shake your head. “I… Just… if you don’t want to talk about it then I don’t want to pressure you. But… please at least tell me you don’t want to go further into it?”

“hey… come on.” he squeezes your hand again, looking hurt. “really, what’s wrong? i’m not taking anything out on you, am i?”

“No.” you shake your head, “Far from it. But… I can tell you’re not totally happy, Sans.” you admit. “And… And I know roughly when it got worse again. And I just…” you pull one leg up to hug your free arm around your knee, propping your chin on it. “...I feel like it’s my fault.”

“why?” his voice is still soft and openly concerned. “why would it be your fault? you’re… honestly the best thing that’s happened down here in awhile, if i’m being blunt.”

“...because I died.” you grit out the words, and duck your head away again when his hand at your chin falls away in surprise. “That’s… what happened, isn’t it? Flowey killed me yesterday. Out in the woods. And then there was some sort of time-travel bullshit or something." 

He’s silent for a long few seconds, and you stare at a spot where two of the zig-zags on the floor connect, your heart in your throat. 

“You  _ knew _ .” you mumble, helplessly, when he doesn’t answer, still avoiding looking at him. “You knew immediately that something had happened… and… and after that, it was like… like I was a ticking time bomb. Like you were waiting for something horrible from me.”

“that’s not true.” he lets out a soft breath, reaching forward to gently lift your chin again. “i… look, it’s… complicated.” 

“ _ Complicated? _ ” You look up at him with disbelief written across your features, “Sans, I-- I don’t even know how to  _ deal _ with this, okay?! My life was the most boring and uncommentable thing and  _ I _ am the most boring and uninteresting person, and all of a sudden  _ I’m living a video game! _ ” You pull your hand and your face away from him, curling in on yourself again. “F-For fucks sake, I  _ respawned _ . Or-- or got a One-Up, or some sort of bullshit like that, that’s  _ not normal _ !”

Sans looks down at his mug of tea, grimacing. “...it’s complicated.” he says again, his voice softer, sounding so emotionally exhausted that you freeze in your pose and glance out at him from underneath your bangs. “i…” he takes a deep breath, “i’m… one of the only ones who can notice. i can’t even count how many times i’ve lived these past few days…” he’s twitching slightly, little tremors that worry you. “look, i… i just… i don’t know how to react to  _ you. _ ” he offers a mirthless grin in your direction. “you’re  _ new _ . i… i’m not mad at you, i’m just... i don’t know what to expect for the first time in  _ countless timelines _ , and-- and i want to believe that things are going to be different with you, that maybe we can move forward with things, but--” He curls down over himself, giggling, a manic sound, “i can’t… i don’t want to do timeline fuckery anymore, i--”

You lean over, pressing your shoulder against his, both offering and seeking comfort, and he falls silent again, violently shuddering. He leans back against you, heavily, and his eyes close.

“i’m scared.” he admits, softly. “i’m scared of you. i’m scared of what you might do. i’m… scared of what could happen if i’m not scared of what you might do.”

You can’t exactly help the soft, humorless giggle that bursts out of your throat, as you press your free hand to your face again. For once, your eyes aren’t tearing up, and you’re not excessively overwhelmed like you have been for the last few days. You’re still a little bit overwhelmed, but it’s manageable. “Fair enough,” you mumble, “I can’t tell you not to be scared of me. But… please believe me when I say I don’t want you to have any reason to be.”

“yeah.” he reaches over and pulls you into a hug, and you curl around him and press your face into his shoulder. You feel him do the same with his face in yours, and in that moment you’re not sure who is comforting who. Maybe you’re both just drawing strength from each other for the moment, because the two of you are the only ones available. “i’m trying.”

“Thank you for being honest with me.” you pull back, forcing yourself to calm, meeting his eyes. “I really do appreciate it. And I know it’s scary… god, do I know it’s scary, not knowing what will come. But… this, too, shall pass.” 

You turn your gaze to your lap, pushing the last four words from your lungs with conviction, a familiar prayer. After a few seconds, you sigh and push to your feet again, grabbing both of your nearly-empty mugs of tea. “Come on, I’m hungry and I bet you are too. Anything in the fridge that  _ isn’t  _ leftover pasta? I’d even settle for scrambled eggs.”

“we’ve definitely got those,” he stands as well, offering his arm jokingly like he’s going to escort you to the kitchen again. “wanna see how to make a quiche? i’m pretty good at quiches.”

“I’ve actually made a quiche before,” you joke, “and I find that it’s pretty much easier to get the same basic concept from a folded over omelette.” You nonetheless slip your own free arm around his, and follow him into the kitchen. The kettle is still warm and sitting on the counter, and you grab it in the same way as you’ve grabbed your mugs, carrying it over to the too-tall sink. Your step-stool is still sitting beside it.

“yeah?” Sans asks, while you step up and start rinsing out both mugs and the kettle. He starts pulling out eggs and other ingredients from the back of the fridge (you kind of think he’s maybe hidden them back there so that Paps won’t find them and throw them out). “i’ve never been really good at folding over omelettes without breaking them, so i guess i always figured quiches were easier.”

“Well, I can get that,” you hum, “It’s just like an egg pie.”

A comfortable silence falls between you as he prepares the fry-pan and starts cutting up a veggie that you  _ think _ looks kind of like broccoli, and you finish with your washing. It’s another half minute before he speaks again.

“...you’re... going to hotland?”

“Mm? Oh, huh. I dunno, maybe.” you shrug.

“oh. okay.”

There’s something in his tone that makes you pause, looking over at him. “Why, what’s wrong?”

“just…” he sighs, offering a strained smile, “sorry. i know, you’re different, things aren’t all going to unfold like the script, but…”

“Sans.” you towel off your hands and climb down, then walk over to stand beside him. “Why are you afraid of me leaving Snowdin?”

He goes tense, looking up at you, before shaking his head and looking away again.

“...paps tries to capture the human when they try to leave snowdin,” he mutters, so soft that you have to strain to hear him, almost like he can’t believe he’s having a rational conversation about this. “it… it always happens.”

You bite your lip, “You know, I’m… not afraid of Papyrus hurting me, or killing me. He’s got a good soul.”

“i never question that paps won’t do irreparable damage.” his voice has taken on a pained edge, and you step back, blinking, as you compute that. If he’s not worried about Papyrus hurting you, but he’s still worried about the fight itself…

...should you be insulted? You feel kind of like you should be insulted.

Because of course, you realize what he’s saying. If he’s not worried about Papyrus hurting you, then he’s worried about you hurting Papyrus. And it makes sense of a lot of the things you’ve noticed about him for the last few days. The intent stares whenever he asked you your impressions of his brother, the wary stares whenever you were going to be alone with Papyrus, the fact that you’re pretty sure he’s been keeping an eye on you literally since you left the Ruins. 

_ i’m afraid of you. i’m afraid of what you might do. _

If the timeline thing is as consistent and predictable as he seems to be implying, if a fight with Papyrus on the way out of Snowdin is really unavoidable... then it’s pretty obvious, at least conceptually, that there have to have been timelines where things went badly. Because, obviously, things could happen differently. You were a prime example.

Sans… has to have seen his brother die. It’s… jarring, to say the least. But there’s still a part of you that feels  _ betrayed _ .

“...the day I intentionally hurt someone is the day I will no longer be the person I want to be.” you keep your voice low, and steady, and keep the hurt that he would think so little of you out of it. You know it’s taking a lot of effort for him to even open up to you about this, and you’re not going to jump down his metaphorical throat just because he’s hurt you. But you still  _ need _ to get this across. You’re not going to blame him for his emotions, or his fears, but you… for gods sake, you  _ do not want _ to hurt anyone, and that is such an integral part of you that the fact that it’s being questioned just…  _ hurts. _

“i know,” he answers, voice soft, still not looking at you, but so firmly that some of the hurt is soothed. “i shouldn’t be expecting the worst, i know, it just… worries me, hearing you’re going to maybe leave snowdin, because the  _ possibility  _ exists.” he brings a hand up to rub at the vertebrae right under his skull. “i’m not trying to… to insinuate that you  _ would _ do something.” he shakes his head, clearly struggling for his words.

You sigh, gently taking the knife from his hands and hip-checking him out of the way, starting to methodically cut the veggies. “I’ll just have to prove your fears wrong,” you offer, with a forced grin. “I can get where they’re coming from, but… I think I might actually have a potential friend in Alphys, and… I really want to talk to her, Sans. I can’t just huddle in Snowdin and expect her to come here every time I want to hang out with her, I’m… going to have to leave sometimes.”

“i know.” he says again, leaning against the counter near you, running a hand over his face. “i’m sorry.”

You lean over and bump your hip against his again. “I’m not mad.”

“but you’re upset.”

“But I’m not  _ mad _ .” You stress. “This is a lot to come to terms with and... it’s okay.” You shrug. “Emotions are weird. Fears too. You can’t really control them.” You scrape the cut up veggies into a bowl and move toward the stove. “What’s important is how we deal with them and move on. You’re not wrong for feeling worried, and I’m not wrong for feeling hurt that you’d think so little of me, but in the end… I still want to be your friend, and I hope the same can be said from you to me.”

“you… you mean it?” he looks over at you, that oddly intense, fascinated look back on his face again.

“I like you, Sans.” you offer him a tentative, fond smile. “One uncomfortable conversation isn’t gonna chase me away.”

The tension in the air noticeably dissipates, and your smile grows a bit more natural when he smiles back at you. You both turn your focus into making breakfast, tossing egg puns at each other until Papyrus and Ellie come back into the house and immediately start groaning loudly in harmony to try and drown the both of you out.

\---

The next several days pass almost suspiciously easily. It takes you a bit of practice to work out the kinks of working as a waitress, as it’s not entirely the same as the pure-salesperson job you’d grown accustomed to, but the regulars at Grillby’s are all extremely patient and encouraging with you. Grillby himself is… not a talker, as you’ve gathered -- either that, or he’s using some kind of fire language that you just can’t understand. But he’s perhaps the most patient of all, gesturing things out when you have questions, and carrying a pen to scribble answers on a napkin if you need specifics.

You try everything on his menu at least once, to familiarize yourself with it, and are pretty sure that you’re going to have to be careful to eat before coming to work, because otherwise you’ll eat nothing  _ but  _ Grillby’s food.

Sans is, predictably, a regular sight at the bar, chatting with Grillby while you pace from table to table to bar to booth, smiling and laughing and carrying on four conversations at once. You balance meals and pitchers of water and duck around the faintly erratic placement of the tables on light feet, slowly getting the hang of waitressing and feeling less like a fish out of water. It helps that you’re starting to pick up on the inside jokes shared between several of the regulars.

The red bird at the bar (“Go ahead and just call me Red!”) enjoys ‘translating’ for Grillby.You got into a few joking arguments with him over what Grillby could  _ actually _ be saying, and the both of you bonded over the unspoken fact that neither of you could accurately translate anyway. He once let out a few huffy complaints that of course you were going to pick up on Grillby’s ‘conversationalist style’ quickly, you were spending eight hours a day with him. You had snorted and refilled his drink, rolling your eyes and saying, entirely seriously, “What can I say? I have a weakness for hot guys.”

(Three different monsters around the restaurant had done spit-takes, and several more groaned good-naturedly. Grillby had given you a look of utter betrayal and disappointment with a single tilt of his head. Sans, at the other end of the bar, had put his head down against the polished wood and shook with laughter he didn’t dare let go.)

A toothy plant monster named Venus always sits in the booth closest to the bar, and they confirmed for you once what you had suspected about monster food, that it has magic in it and can heal the soul. There were a few facts that they pointed out that you hadn’t been entirely certain of, of course -- like the fact that it took ages to spoil, if it ever did, and that it didn’t tend to leave a physical waste product, which more or less explains why Grillby’s doesn't have a bathroom. You had kind of figured it was because everyone's homes were in walking distance. 

You’d had a few conversations with the less-than-attractive fish monster that usually sat at the bar (you kind of thought he was like… it was terrible, but your first thought was ‘blobfish’ and it  _ stuck _ .) but for the most part your interactions with him were very brief and usually awkward. You weren’t even sure if you remembered his name, or if he’d even given it to you. He’d tried half-heartedly flirting with you once, but had quickly backed off when you asked him to stop. After that conversation, you kept things mostly professional -- he just…  _ really _ makes you uncomfortable, to be honest. Not for any appearance reasons -- hell, as stated before, you're best friends with a bird and crushing on a skeleton right now, and irrationally terrified of a flower with a pencil-drawn face. You think you’re allowed to have a little leniency to be uncomfortable around someone, right?

Right.

The human-sized hamster monster, Cyril, usually sits by the defunct jukebox and is fun to talk to, at least to probe for information on the Capitol and the King. Your cover story of coming from the Ruins seems to be serving you well enough, as it gives you a somewhat decent excuse for being rather clueless on the history and culture that seems embedded into the very air that permeates the capitol, from the way that he talks about it. You learn that the King makes regular trips throughout the underground and resolve to be ready when the next one comes around. You learn that the underground is facing problems with crowding, and that more people are probably going to start having to shift resources around. But personally, you think that the most important thing you learn is that he is entirely herbivorous and you make sure never to suggest anything off of the menu with meat.

(Life is a story, but the chapters are more important. Each little story is what matters, in the grander scheme of things. Your life might have become a goddamn RPG for some stupid reason, but in the end, it’s still your life, and these people are still the people you’re filling it with.)

You receive a formal introduction to Greater Dog three hours after starting your first day at Grillby’s, standing (and swaying) between Doggo and Lesser Dog (whose neck is, admittedly, about six inches longer than it should be -- you kind of couldn’t help yourself and LD certainly hadn't been complaining). Dogamy and Dogaressa had been hovering nearby, clearly ready to intervene if necessary. The mechanized armor that Greater Dog is in stands a full four feet above you, and the tips of his snowy white ears brush against the ceiling of Grillby’s, but after shaking your hand (you’d been furiously telling yourself not to tremble), he’d hopped out of the armor entirely.

He’s a miniature white husky.  He is, literally, barely two feet tall. You’re pretty sure Flowey is probably taller than him.

After that point, you had found it pretty much impossible to stay intimidated by him. Especially when he yipped out a little cheerful bark and wagged his tail at you. 

(There’s still a tail poking out of the armor’s exterior, and you’re not sure whether it’s funnier to think that the  _ mech _ has a tail added to it, or to think that there’s still another dog in there operating the legs and the only thing you get to see is their tail.)

And then.

Oh god, and then.

And then there’s Sidney.

She “introduced” herself to you by very tipsily draping herself over your shoulder on one of the few occasions where you were sitting at the bar and catching your breath, swiping up ketchup with a few straggling fries. Her long, velvety ears had flopped onto your head, and she had slurred out a comment that you were just the most  _ adorable _ little thing, and could she keep you? And then she’d proceeded to shuffle along after you while you worked, prying the important information out of you.

The important information, of course, being your prefered alcoholic mixes and gossipping about who was hot and who was not. She had barely taken twenty minutes of knowing you before she had looked you in the eye, her own gaze slightly unfocused, and had giggled knowingly and sung under her breath, “Ooh, you’ve got it  _ bad _ for someone already.” 

She’d then dragged you into her booth, pushed drinks at you, and had wrangled the entire, pathetic story of your out-of-nowhere crush on Sans out of your tipsy, giggly ass without mercy.

You couldn’t even bring yourself to be mad about it.

You aren’t sure when the shift happened. All you know is that quite suddenly, you’ve been underground for a week and a half, and you’re surrounded by people who seem to genuinely like you.

And you’re content.


	18. New Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You honestly love your new job. It's almost pathetic how quickly you fell in love with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is late and it's not an April Fool's joke and I'm genuinely sorry.

“Is Cyril really tryin’ to get the jukebox goin’?” Doggo muses to you one evening, while you’re refilling his drink. You take a quick glance at his cards, offering a quick grin and a double tap against the table, gesturing for him to check and play through. You’ve taken to poking your head in regularly to peer at hands in their poker game, and after the first few times of them trying to pretend to be annoyed and hiding their cards, they started letting you be the only one to see them. You never butt in unless Doggo is really badly losing, anyway. Poor guy keeps having to flutter his cards to even see them, and more often than not gets frustrated and loses his poker face. You have a fondness for lost-causes and (snrk) underdogs (oh dear, you’re never going to be able to look at Doggo the same way _ever again_ ).

“Looks like.” you confirm, casting a quick glance over to the other side of the bar, where the aforementioned hamster monster is half-obscured behind the busted old jukebox. Greater Dog peers at you for a few seconds as though trying to figure out if you're bluffing for Doggo or if his hand is actually good, before checking himself. “It'll be nice to get some music going in here if he manages.”

“No kidding.” Doggo takes a sip of his water, and you hum and scratch behind one of his ears before moving on to Sidney’s booth.  You've made it a personal mission to make sure she stays hydrated once she starts drinking. She's made it a personal mission to drag you away from work whenever she gets the chance.

Ellie seems to have taken a liking to the often drunken bunny, perching in that booth more often than not while you work.  At the moment, the two of them are giggling dangerously about something, and you feel like you should be mildly worried about that. Especially since they turn to beam at you as you approach them.

“Sooo,” Ellie starts as soon as you’re in hearing range, and you immediately turn on your heel and move to walk away because that tone of voice spells nothing but trouble. “No, wait, hang on! Come on, don’t be mean.” She calls out after you, sounding disappointed. You sigh, shaking your head and turning back around to the two of them. Sidney is giving you her most emphatic pleading eyes and _damn it,_ you’re boned. You can’t resist the bunny eyes.

You reluctantly hold up one hand to gesture for them to wait a minute, you’re going to do one more sweep of the restaurant before you let them corner you into a conversation. The gleeful looks on both of their faces only manage to intensify your feeling that you’re about to be walking into a trap. You do one last walk around, making sure that everyone’s drinks are topped off and that Cyril isn’t overheating himself behind the jukebox, before walking back over to Sidney and Ellie like you’re walking to a guillotine.

“ _What._ ” you ask, looking between the two of them with obvious dread on your face. You don’t think that their conspiratorial smiles are good news for anyone, especially not you.

“Why didn’t you _tell me_ you had a certain inclination toward a certain someone~?” Ellie trills, clearly delighted.

You immediately thump your forehead down on the table, groaning pathetically. Is there any way to take back telling Sidney about your stupid crush without having to die in the process? Because you could die of embarrassment but you really don’t want to have to.

“C’mon, this is like the only time we can talk about it, do you know how rare it is that he isn’t here?” Sidney gestures toward the noticeably empty spot at the bar before starting to rub gentle circles into your back when you don't immediately get back up again. “It's practically a fact of nature here, Sans is at Grillby's more often than he isn't.” her smile grows devious, “ _Especially_ since the cute girl who's been staying with him and his brother got a waitress job…~”

“You are terrible, terrible people.” You intone into the polished table wood. “I'm afraid I can't be friends with you anymore. I'm going to go back to the Ruins, or onward to Hotland to hang out with Alphys forever, and pretend I never met any of you.”

“ _Sure_ you are, you big baby.” Ellie hops up onto your head when it seems clear you're not sitting up again anytime soon, since you’re trying valiantly to hide your crimson face. She settles down alarmingly quickly in your hair,  balancing on your scalp without the use of her talons. “Except you love this job already.”

You give another pathetic whine because you know she's right.

“Honestly.” Ellie huffs fondly, fluffing her feathers up on top of your head, “I think you’re making a big deal out of nothing, you know? I’m not gonna say anything to him, and neither is Sinny. You can trust us with that much, right?”

“I can trust that you won’t _say_ anything.” you mutter, “But something makes me question the thought that you won’t _do_ anything.”

Their uncertain giggles are the only confirmation you need.

“Oh _come on_!” you finally sit up, making Ellie squawk a little and jump into an immediate hover over your head. “What were you planning?”

“Nothing big! Just, y’know. Christmas is comin’ up.” Sidney shrugs, aiming for nonchalant and entirely missing it, unapologetically beaming with free mischief in her eyes. “Figured we’d set up mistletoe around Grillby’s, and it might be a lucky thing…”

“We were gonna do it anyway, even before Sinny told me about your _adorable_ crush.” Ellie adds, settling down on the table again. “It’d be fun to see who gets caught underneath it, and who we can _catch_ underneath it, if you know what I mean.” she giggles, the thin clicking trilling sound that you’ve come to recognize, and flaps her wings a couple of times with a mischievous glint in her eyes. You can already imagine her hovering around with mistletoe in her claws and it’s _kind of terrifying_. “Pretty sure Cyril’s got a crush on Sinny here anyway. Bet I could make that happen.”

“Oh my god, he does _not_.” Sidney immediately hisses, attempting to discreetly peer over her shoulder at where Cyril is still hidden behind the jukebox, humming contemplatively. “...does he? He totally doesn’t. But what if he does? Oh, man.”

You can’t help giggling a bit. You know that Sidney had been the one who agreed most vocally with you upon finding out you liked Sans, and that she had harbored a bit of a silly crush on him herself, but she had dialed it back almost immediately upon learning about it from you. She’d stated that she thought you had a better chance than she did; she’d been sort-of friends with him for years, and hadn’t gotten anywhere. Seeing her eyeing Cyril's visible lower half like she was poking at a salad she wasn't sure she wanted to eat was kind of hilarious.

“Hey, if I catch you and Sans under the mistletoe, I’ll make it a mission to catch Sinny and Cyril too.” Ellie stage whispers in your direction. You pick up your own cue beautifully, tapping your chin thoughtfully.

“Hmmm,” you stage whisper back, “Watching Sinnabun squirm _and_ prompted anxiety over kissing someone I like. Sounds like a win-win for me.”

Sidney turns around and gently smacks the back of your head with the velvety part of her paw, all in one movement, before all three of you dissolve into good-natured giggles. It’s still kind of surreal to you, knowing that these two girls are your _friends._

And, not to mention, Alphys is sort of becoming a friend too.

You’ve been keeping up an on-and-off stream of consciousness type line of texts between yourselves whenever either of you has a minute to reach for your phone. Apparently, she’s a fan of anime? You’ve never heard of the animes she keeps ranting about, so you figure she must be a niche fan or something; you’ve dabbled a bit in a few of the more mainstream ones, enough to get the general sense of most of the storylines but not quite enough to count yourself an ‘aficionada’. It had only taken you a few read-throughs of her summary of “Mew Mew Kissy Cutie” to realize that it was pretty much a really shitty sounding knock-off of Tokyo Mew Mew, though.

Almost as though your thoughts have summoned her, your phone buzzes in your pocket with a cheerful little “nya~?” sound. You’re still not entirely sure how she managed to input her number _and_ download a sound pack _and_ set her notification sound in the short amount of time she’d had your phone in her hands, but you decided to leave it be.

You tug out your phone, opening the message and already feeling a tentative grin forming on your face. Your previous messages were still on the screen.

 

> _ >> still trying to figure out whether gd is 2 dogs in a mech suit or 1 dog but the mech has a tail _  
>  _ >> like does the other dog ever come out if he exists??? doesn’t he get hungry??? do they both have to exit the mech entirely to use the bathroom??? _  
>  _ >> #unsolvedmysteries #grillbysgossip _ _  
> _ _Alphys :: lol!! I could mmmmaybe ask Undyne? She works with the K-9 Unit a lot._ _  
> _ >> if you would but don’t tell her I asked?? pretty sure she’s still pacing in waterfall waiting for me to go thru

(You’d sent it off like it was a joke, but it _was_ a legitimate concern. Ellie did a fly through of Waterfall every couple of days, reporting on the flooding status and what the head of the Royal Guard, as you’d found out, was up to. As it was, it seemed like she was roving through Waterfall on a daily basis, and growing more agitated by the day.)

 

> _Alphys :: Of course. I’ll play it off as my own curiosity._  
>  _ >> also they’re totally not a ‘K-9 Unit’, tho I can appreciate the pun. _  
>  _ >> they’re #squadgoals. Dogsquad. _ _  
> _ _Alphys :: Right of course._ _  
> _ (unread) Alphys :: So according to Undyne, Greater Dog IS in fact two dogs in one mech suit. Apparently GD is the head, and his ‘legs’ don’t leave much except to steal bones and generally be annoying. She said she thinks the other dog is named Toby, but she’s not sure? She just calls him Annoying Dog, or AD for short.

You snort, bringing a hand up over your mouth and shaking with renewed laughter. Sidney immediately cranes her neck, trying to get a sightline on your phone screen, and Ellie hovers over to read it _literally_ over your shoulder.

“Oh my _stars_.” Sidney giggles. “That’s… that’s prime-time gossip, right there.”

“Wait, but if his legs have a name--” You hum, before quickly tapping out a response.

 

> _ >> so if his ‘legs’ have a name but are nicknamed ‘ad’ does that mean that gd and ld have actual names too? asking for science here _

“Oh, imagine if we just found that out and just _used_ their actual names out of nowhere, what do you think their reaction would be?” Sidney is, of course, already thinking of the practical joke potential. Your opportunity vanishes with the next text, however.

 

> _Alphys :: Unfortunately, no. Those two are brothers of the same litter. GD is older and LD is younger._ _  
> _ _ >> LAME. :c was gonna greet gd and ad by name and both at the same time to see their reaction. _

You pause, not entirely sure what makes you look up -- it almost felt like a nudge at the back of your neck, like you’d overheard your name being whispered -- but when you look over your shoulder, Grillby is watching you and placing new orders onto the bar. You offer a faint smile toward him, bolstered when he nods, and slip your phone back into your pocket. He’s probably the most forgiving boss you’ve ever had, so you don’t actually feel any resentment over being pulled back to your actual work.

“Back to the grind?” Sidney asks, her chin in one paw, a wry smile on her face. You hear the door to the restaurant jingle and catch sight of Sans entering out of the corner of your eye, and swallow heavily, casting an imploring and desperation-marred stare at your two friends, who have both caught sight of him themselves.

“ _Please_ just don’t do anything stupid.” You hiss at them beseechingly as you retreat. You don’t get to hear whether they agree or not, since you’re pretty immediately turning your focus onto grabbing the food on the bar and starting to pass it around to where it’s meant to be going.

“Saaaansy!” Sidney’s voice croons from behind you and you feel a moderate amount of betrayal, almost certain she’s about to disregard your request.

“heya.” Sans’ voice is more nonchalant. “how many drinks so far, three? four?”

“Six, actually! I’m being forcefully kept hydrated, it’s going _so slow_.”

“sounds like a bad time.” he chuckles, and you get to turn around just in time to see him tip a two-fingered salute off of his brow bone toward the two, before continuing to the bar. You’re pretty sure your sigh of relief is visible but you can’t help it. You duck around behind him on his path so you can go check on Cyril again, because he seems to be slowly being consumed by the liminal space behind the jukebox.

“Cyril, are you alive back there?” You joke, leaning over and around the jukebox, just in time for Cyril to startle and ram his hand into the casing. He lets out a soft stream of chittered, stifled curses and you wince sympathetically as you see his knuckles starting to swell alarmingly fast.

“Eesh.” You murmur, offering him a hand up, “My bad. Here, let me take a look at that.”

“I almost had it!” he groans forlornly, “The last wire was in my hand! I was an inch from the port, I just couldn’t reach--”

“I know, Cyr.” you pat his shoulder, gently tugging him over to the bar. “Come on, let me get you some ice for your knuckles. And after, I’ll see if I can reach the wire for you.”

At the bar, you quickly fold together a small makeshift ice pack from a fabric napkin, dunking your hand into the dregs of the last water pitcher and scooping a few sad little ice cubes out of it. You bring the compress over to press it against Cyril’s quickly swelling hand and note the way that the air shifts -- it’s not a lot, it’s not all-encompassing, but it’s enough to snag your attention, if only for half a second. For a few seconds, it’s almost as though the entire underground takes a breath in, all at once, and you’re almost lightheaded with the sensation. Then it’s gone, and you let out a shaky breath of your own.

You shake the sensation off, following Cyril back over toward the jukebox and kneeling down in the space behind the wall where he had been hiding for most of the past hour. You can immediately tell which wire he was working with -- it’s the only one still hanging loose, and likewise, there’s only one port where it can possibly go into.

The first crackle of operation from the jukebox cuts through the remaining sound in the restaurant and silences it. The first warbling notes of the last queued song are, conversely, drowned out with an excited murmur of incredulous voices.

You crawl back out and grab Cyril’s uninjured hand, lifting it in a victory pose, and smile slightly at the look of happy wonderment on his face when the entire restaurant breaks into cheers.

Well… the entire restaurant except for Sans, who is looking on in something like amazement. His eyes aren’t on Cyril, or on the jukebox. They’re on you.

* * *

_Sounds of rain, falling slow to the ground_  
The pitter-  
_patter of raindrops soft like bells._  
Not quite here, but you know the sound  
_You know it's Raining Somewhere Else...._


	19. Comforting Habits

The kitchen is your sanctuary -- and you realize, kind of amusingly, how some of your previous coworkers would respond to that fact. Hell, you’d made a joke about it with Sans when he first brought it up, but… still, the simple act of cooking for yourself (and now, for others) has always been something that you could take with you, no matter where in the country you wound up. You could wake up with the sun streaming down on your face or have to drag yourself out of bed with an alarm clock, could be curled up on a couch or on the floor or on a cot -- every apartment was different -- but it didn’t matter. All of them at least had the basic amenities of a kitchenette, and scrambling up eggs or scraping up a stir-fry is an art you’ve long perfected.

The rapport you’ve started to establish with the Snowdin shopkeeper grows more apparent once you start making periodic shopping trips to raid her supplies for food. It only takes a few days to clean out the fridge of old pasta supplies and ‘attempts’, as you very gently dub them. The first dinner you throw together for the house isn’t Gordon Ramsay level culinary masterpiece, but it’s not spaghetti and that alone is a balm to your taste buds.

You couldn’t tell if Papyrus was being honestly _critical_ when he questioned why your spaghetti was in tiny little lumps (it was fried rice), or why your meatballs were thin strips (seared beef...), or why your sauce looked rather off-colored (gravy…? You were actually kind of _concerned_ by that point). But his expression was absolutely priceless when he did finally taste it. You had given a tiny little giggle at his praises afterward, before trying to very gently explain that it wasn’t spaghetti. The dubious look he had given you had been perfect.

Sans had simply taken a bite, paused, stared at the plate for a few seconds, before starting to wolf down the serving you had portioned onto his plate. Ellie had gotten a small pile of beef strips, and had cheerfully torn them apart between her beak and her talons. And you… well, you had curled up between the two skeletons on the couch with your own plate, almost glowing with happiness.

You’re especially happy when you get to lean over against Sans’ side and none of your usual questioning uncertainty bubbles up in your mind. You’ve never really thought of yourself as a tactile person before, so it’s actually almost a little alarming how naturally you’re starting to seek out the gentle presence of another being touching you, even if it’s only the comforting presence of Ellie snugging down into your shoulder. He’s solid and he’s warm and he shifts his position a little bit to better accommodate your weight against his side, all without pausing his seemingly ravenous eating.

Papyrus, not to be outdone, drapes himself across both of your laps, still holding onto his plate and almost giddy with delight. Sans lifts his plate only long enough to put it back down on Papyrus’ ribs, and you feel a sense of _rightness_ settle into your bones. You’ve gotten used to always having a low-lying buzz of something off running through your system, but in that moment, even though it’s still there, for just a moment it seems to… almost fit itself. It becomes like a quilt resting across your lap, rather than a heavy cloak weighing down on your shoulders.

Each evening seems to reinforce this simple yet comforting habit -- you all converge on the couch by seven thirty, with your plates of food and the television on to some Mettaton-related show (sometimes it’s a movie, sometimes it’s a weird mockery of the underground news, sometimes it’s a cooking show and you have to force yourself not to cringe visibly every time he sets something on fire for effect. You’re sure the food probably comes out delicious, but the fire is _really_ excessive.). Neither of the two skeleton brothers question when you flop to one side or the other, curling yourself snugly into a ribcage and munching on your food without taking your eyes off of the TV. They stay with you usually until Papyrus starts yawning, at which point Sans usually ushers Paps up the stairs and you all say your goodnights to each other. Then you bed down into the couch cushions and pull the quilt that you’ve been using off of the arm of the couch, and Ellie nests down further into your hoodie, and the two of you let the sounds of the wind blowing through the caverns and creaking wood and each other’s breathing lull you to sleep.

Sidney appears irregularly and usually winds up crashing on your couch with you, quite often drunk. She snuggles you like you’re a teddy bear and you can’t bring yourself to complain. The extra heartbeat and set of breaths even closer nearby than Ellie’s is soothing in a way you can’t quite describe, and you… you _really_ like being held, okay? It’s mildly ridiculous. Plus her fur is as soft as satin, and smells lightly of pine needles.

(You might have a very gentle friendcrush on Sidney.

Okay, you definitely have a very gentle friendcrush on Sidney.

Like… if you weren’t both kind of mutually crushing on Sans, you would probably suggest eloping to her.)

In the mornings, it’s not unusual for Papyrus to be up at dawn, even before your alarm blares at 7 AM sharp. Even knowing that you don’t have to be anywhere until eleven, you keep the alarm on because you know it will genuinely take you that long to wake up on most mornings. A shower helps, and you’re starting to slowly work your way through the cannister of golden flower tea leaves -- you brew two mugs each day, sipping at one on the couch in the mornings in the silence and usually watching Sans shuffle by from the staircase to the kitchen, where the second mug is always left waiting for him.

Papyrus and Sans usually leave the house long before you do, with Papyrus bounding out the door and proclaiming that each new day was going to be a good one, and Sans usually shuffling along a few minutes later, hands in his hoodie pockets and, quite often, still half asleep despite having downed the tea you leave him.

Every other day, Ellie wings her way out with them, and you know that she’s still checking on Undyne’s general status over in Waterfall, as well as the status of the flooding. Waterfall, as it turns out, is usually at least somewhat flooded, to a sort of minimal extent. You know that you pretty much have to eventually make your way through it, if only to go see Alphys. And hey, maybe you can go to the King directly and… ask for citizenship? If you’re going to be down here until you die, then you might as well, you know, address the fact that everyone kind of wants to kill you.

You’re still not entirely sure how well you’ll face the dreaded four-month mark after close to four years without living in one place for longer than that, but you guess you’re going to have to make due _somehow_.

Each day of quiet domesticity seems to smooth off the rough edges of your anxiety again, and you’re _entirely_ okay with this fact. You use your mornings of quiet time to do your laundry, revisit your coping music playlists, and sometimes you pull together a batch of something baked and sweet-smelling (the kids in town always seem to flock over whenever you do, and you always make sure the armless one gets an extra cookie or brownie or whatever it is before he leaves).

About two weeks into your stay at around eight in the morning, your phone goes off without one of the distinctive sound bytes you’ve assigned to pretty much all of the people who ever text you -- which, granted, is a list total of four people? But _still_ \-- you scoop up your phone and peer down at the screen blearily for a moment, before it fully registers just what the little notification is telling you.

> _1 New Message from:_ _  
> _ _ >>Toriel _
> 
> _Open?_

You jab your thumb at the affirmative button hard enough to click your fingernail against the screen, sitting up straight from your spot half-draped over both of your boys’ laps. Papyrus lets out a tiny sound of dissatisfaction and confusion as you curl your feet underneath yourself, scanning the little missive on the screen.

> _Toriel :: Young one, I hope this message finds you well. I haven’t heard any news from the rest of the Underground regarding the acquisition of a seventh human soul, so my hopes are high. If you are well, please respond soon._

You’re practically vibrating and your smile has grown to encompass half of your face. You tap the keys to your phone furiously, it’s actually kind of a wonder that you don’t drop the damn thing, you’re so _freaking excited._

> _> > Toriel! I’m doing okay, actually. I found a place to stay pretty soon after leaving the Ruins tbh. ___  
> _Toriel :: Oh, I didn’t expect you to respond so quickly. What is “tbh”?_ __  
> _> > Oops, sorry. TBH means “to be honest”._ __  
> _Toriel :: Oh! Well, I’m glad that you found a place to stay, and I’m assuming it must be somewhat safe._ _  
> __> > I think so. It’s right in Snowdin, actually. _  _Things have settled alright for me so far._ Are things going well for you?

“mph.” Sans falls over onto your lap, peering up at you blearily. “what is it?”

“It’s Toriel, she’s talking to me again, which I _hope_ means that there’re no hard feelings between us.”

“Ooh~” Ellie trills and hops over from the top of the couch onto your shoulder, curling down into the comfy spot between your collarbone and your neck. She’s a concentrated little ball of fluff and warmth and you absentmindedly bring a hand up to brush your fingertips through her breast feathers, gaining a contented trill from her.

> _Toriel :: Oh, quite well. I was actually wondering if you were still interested in that offer of tea?_

You and Ellie share a mutual small squeal of excitement, before you bite your lip and try to phrase your question right.

> _ >> Of course, but I thought you asked me not to come back to the Ruins? _  
>  _Toriel :: Well, specifically speaking, I have need to get some outside supplies from town. Learning that you’re staying there is rather soothing._ _  
> _ _ >> Right! Okay then, when were you going to be around? I’ll need to talk to Grillby about taking the day off. _ _  
> Toriel :: If it’s not too soon, then I was thinking perhaps this afternoon? For lunch, by chance?_

You _chirp_. Ellie fluffs up her feathers in apparent delight as the small, extremely pleased noise slips free from your throat. Sans peers up at you for a few long seconds, his gaze confused and searching for understanding. Papyrus is trying to nonchalantly lean over to read over your shoulder, and normally that wouldn’t be an issue, but his bony-ass shoulder is jamming into your arm in the process. You glance up at him for a second before sighing and turning slightly so that the brunt of his weight is cradled just above your armpit.

“Ellie,” You start softly, a hopeful and pleading tone in your voice.

“Already on it.” she hops from her perch and wings out of one slightly open window without a further word.

“what…?” Sans blinks.

“She’s going to let Grillby know I need the day off. Because _oh god_ ,  I need today off. I need to clean. And make lunch. And _clean_ , oh my god. I know you two’ve got the whole sock war thing going on between you two but it’s done, I’m calling ceasefire.”

“but… why?” Sans is still openly confused.

“Because I’m having _company_ over, and it’s _Toriel_ , and her Mom-with-a-capital-M level is _obscene_. And I don’t want to mess this up. This could be my one shot at reconciliation, alright? We parted on some pretty intense terms.”

He blinks, before nodding slightly, though it’s the nod of someone acceding defeat, rather than a nod of someone who understands. You gently poke him in the space between his ribs, so that his shirt indents slightly into it, until he reluctantly sits up off of your lap again. You nudge Papyrus with your shoulder to get him to take his weight off of you as well, and start murmuring your list to yourself as you type out one last response.

> _ >> Today is entirely fine! See you around 1 PM? _  
>  _Toriel :: 1 PM it is._  
>  _> > PS: Don’t forget the pie!! _

You push to your feet and tuck your phone into your pocket, letting out a determined huff. Five hours to get entirely ready.

_Bring it on._

* * *

 

Papyrus left the house at 8:30. Sans dawdled for two minutes too long, and you recruited him into helping you. You would feel bad about it, except he doesn’t seem to actually mind. You’d traded good-natured barbs and egg puns (so many egg puns) (Sans’ ripostes were, as always, _egg-cellent_ ) while you made a quick omelet for your own breakfast, and he’d allowed himself to be bullied into actually picking up his sock and gathering his laundry from his room so that you could toss a wash in.

You’d allowed yourself to be bullied into not actually tossing that one particular sock into the wash. You know that it’ll wind up back in its designated warzone spot probably within seconds of Toriel leaving.

Ellie had reappeared at nine, only to sweetly insist that this was a time for you and Toriel, and that she was going to hang out with Sidney for the day. She would be back before nightfall. You’d smiled and prompted her to have entirely too much fun.

At noon, you had sent Toriel a description of the house, for when she got through the woods into town, so that she could find the place.

At twelve-twenty, you’d pulled together altogether far too many sandwiches.

At twelve forty six, Sans sits you down on the couch and points at your face and tells you not to move. He’s got a mildly worried look on his face and you think he might be a bit unnerved by the fact that you’ve turned ‘the bachelor pad’ almost upside down for the sake of company. Either that or he’s worried that if he lets you keep going then you’re going to collapse.

“stay.” he says, very pointedly, repeating himself as he steps back away from you to head toward the kitchen. The plate of sandwiches and a new kettle of tea is waiting on the counter there. He brings them out to the couch and twitches his free hand toward the floor in front of it, and to your immense intrigue four shimmering white bones jolt upward out of the ground. A fifth, much larger bone settles across them, and you realize that he’s made a goddamn _magic coffee table_ made out of _magic goddamn bones_.

“One of these days, you’re going to have to show me all the crazy shit you guys can do, you realize that, right?” You grin at him, watching him set up the plates and the kettle, and he beams back at you with a spark of mischief in his eye.

“well, I don’t know if you want to see _everything_ I can do.” He shrugs.

You… kind of can’t tell if that was meant to be a serious threat or a double entendre. But you're kind of certain all of a sudden that if he manages to get out a goddamn _boner_ pun before you get to, then you're _leaving_.

“Should I take that to mean that this isn't the only big bone you can magically create?” you ask drily.

Or, you try to. What comes out is “I'm guessing you can make other bones then?” you internally wince and furiously backpedal. “Like, skulls and stuff?”

… _nailed it,_ your Professional Image section applauds, tonelessly and carrying more insult than if it had actually insulted you.

 _You're a disgrace,_ your Hormones alert you, just as flatly.

 _That was pitiful_ , your Interpersonal Relationships section agrees.

 _\--you fucked up you fucked up you fucked up --_ your anxiety is, as always, _helpful as fucking ever_.

 _I know, goddamn it,_ **_shut up._ ** You try not to let the thought become a whine, but it does anyway.

You're pretty sure he's gearing up to stick the landing on the innuendo you failed to capitalize on, but there's a knock on the door at that moment that interrupts the both of you. He makes a ‘stop’ noise when you move to get up, pushing to his feet and going to the door.

“who’s there?” he calls through the door, casting a shit eating grin your way, and you do a spit take on the sip of tea you had reluctantly taken. You look at him incredulously -- is he _seriously_ \--

There’s a startled gasp from behind the door, then a few seconds of intense silence, before you hear Toriel’s voice, “...Justin.” Sans’ grin falls away into something like shock and awe, and he takes a second to find his voice again.

“j… justin who?”

“Justin time for lunch, I hope.”

He opens the door; you study his expression as he does so. He looks rather like someone who’s just run into a kindergarten best friend after twenty years, or someone who’s just… ugh, you feel bad for thinking this, but he kind of looks like someone who’s just met up with their ex again and isn’t quite over them. Toriel stands just a bit taller than both of you -- if you remember correctly, your eyeline is at the tip of her fuzzy nose -- and she’s holding a covered pie tin in both of her hands and looking mildly taken aback. You see her glance between him and you, and something unspoken goes between them -- an emotion so complicated, there and gone, that you barely get a read on it.

Questioning… confusion… Something slipping away? Not an emotion per se. But… opportunity lost? Not quite disappointment… disillusioned understanding, maybe?

“Pssssst.” you stage-whisper from the couch, filing the moment away for further consideration later. “Sans. Don’t be rude. Invite her in.”

He startles a bit, looking over at you for a few seconds like a lost puppy, before laughing awkwardly and stepping to the side, gesturing inside. Toriel steps in past him and hesitates for a second before placing the pie on the ( _magic_ ) coffee table. You stand and hug her and smile like you don’t realize how odd the atmosphere has gotten.

“so uh… hi.” Sans moves to sit with you and Toriel again, addressing Toriel. “nice to, y’know, finally meet you face to face.”

(You think this is the moment when you identify what the feeling in the air is.

It is pure, unfiltered Awkward.

This visit is going to go _wonderfully_.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a gentle reminder that this authoress thrives on comments and talking to her readers!


	20. It's Not Tu-Toriel, it's Tea-Toriel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When is the moment where you realize things have changed?

“You guys know each other?” you glance between Toriel and Sans, and a part of you (you think it’s Interpersonal Relationships, but it might be Irrational) recoils and feels a bit sick at the realization that you’re witnessing either the birth... or the death of something potentially beautiful.

“sorta.” Sans shrugs, awkwardly, his usual fixed grin on his face (you’ve started to realize that that grin is a blatant mask to hide his discomfort with the situation as it stands), “aha, um, before you left the ruins, uh… i used to stop by that door out in the woods. ‘cuz, you know, it’s pretty much perfect for practicing knock knock jokes.”

Toriel has a hand over her mouth, clearly trying to hide her smile. You suck your lips in between your teeth to try and stop your own, because  _ damn it _ he’s being adorable again, but he’s pretty obviously uncomfortable and you don’t want to find it funny.

“and basically, uh. one day i knock on the door, and go ‘knock knock’, like usual, and all of a sudden i hear ‘who’s there?’ from the other side and… please say something so i can stop talking.” he hunches down a bit into the fluff of his jacket, his cheeks stained blue, and Toriel shares an amused look with you before she takes pity on him.

“Essentially,” she says warmly, “we’ve forged a bit of an atypical friendship through shared jokes, but prior to today…” she shrugs, looking sheepish (your brain  _ still  _ finds that comparison funny). “I have fallen a bit out of the habit of, ah… leaving the Ruins, as it happens. So prior to today, we had never met face to face. It was… quite a surprise, hearing  _ your _ voice through another door, my friend.”

They're not looking at each other. Sans looks  _ incredibly _ uncertain. You have to think fast and do something about that. 

“Awww.” you croon, pressing your palm to your cheek. You can feel an absolutely idiotic grin forming on your face, because clearly the way to go is through your usual banter with him. That always helps him relax. Sans spares you a look like he’s about to beg you not to do what you’re clearly going to do anyway. He’s like a teenage boy with a crush on his teacher, it’s  _ stupidly cute _ . “That’s a- _ door _ -able.”

He gives a good natured groan and puts his face in his bony hands. Toriel, on the other hand, gives a soft and delighted giggle. “It’s good to see you on happier terms, young one.” she sighs afterward. “You seem positively radiant, compared to our previous meeting.”

“I’m just glad you agreed to come.” you smile, gesturing over to the couch. “First friendly face upon entering the underground, and all. I-- I really kind of regret how… tumultuous? My departure was.”

You all settle on the couch, with you sitting between Sans and Toriel (he’d bumped you over to the middle seat before you could really settle down, and you’d relented) and you pour her a cup of tea.

“You had to do what you believed was best, young one.” she accepts the cup and takes a sip, humming in soft, familiar-sounding bliss. “I will admit I… was not quite thinking unselfishly, at the time. You were right to do as you did. It merely took me a bit of time to come to terms with that.”

“Well, I’m at least glad my leaving led to this moment.” you say dryly. Sans tosses you an alarmed look, especially once you cast a knowing grin his way. “You two meeting, I mean. This is a meet-cute straight out of the cheesiest rom-com--”

His hand is immediately on your mouth and you’re laughing like a hyena into his palm while he makes a sound like a deflating tire.

“ _please_  stop talking--” he’s whining into your ear, his entire face blue. You swipe the flat of your tongue across his palm with an entirely immature “myeehhhhh” sound and laugh harder when he pulls his hand away with an absolutely disgusted and betrayed look on his face.

“did you just--”

“Ewww, why do your hands  _ taste _ like ketchup?” you make an exaggerated gagging noise, drowning him out and making a big deal about trying to scrub the taste from your tongue. Toriel is laughing openly and Sans is sighing at your antics. 

“Funny,” Toriel muses, “I seem to recall you saying something about not being a child, young one.”

“Hey--” you fake an affronted look, “Being an adult is not  _ never _ being childish.  It's knowing when the situation requires seriousness.”

“Oh, of course.” She acquiesces gracefully, though her eyes are glimmering with mirth. “Such as enjoying knock-knock jokes through a door with someone you barely know?”

“you're the worst.” Sans mumbles in your direction, pushing his face into your shoulder. 

“I'm the best and you know it~” you tease him good-naturedly, tossing an arm around his shoulders, “Come on, this is just a gentle  _ ribbing.  _ You can't tell me this isn't  _ humerus. _ ”

“hey, come on, skeleton puns are my thing!” he pulls back and elbows you in the ribs,  but he's reluctantly smiling at you now, and you giggle a bit and squeeze around his shoulders. “i helped you get everything ready today, don't be mean.”

“You're right, okay, sorry.” You make a face at him. “I will refrain from stealing your swag skelepuns. But I still get to call you bonehead.”

“fine.” He rolls his eyes. Toriel is laughing into her hand now, and both of them look far less tense than they were before, which had been your end goal. Sans seems to have realized that you're not trying to be mean to him by pointing out how obvious his crush is, and that instead you were trying to break the tension. He's gotten better about trying to actually read your intentions since the talk. 

You reach forward to grab yourself a sandwich, sitting back while the two of them start tentatively chatting at each other, pleased with your accomplishment.

The afternoon passes, slowly but surely, trading stories between the three of you. You finally get around to asking Toriel about the Ruins, and how old they are, and how long she’s been taking care of them. She evades the last question with an enigmatic and sad smile, and you don’t press, but is entirely willing to exposit on the age of the Ruins themselves.

The Ruins, as it turns out, were the original home of the Capitol of the monsters, shortly after they were banished underground. It was the first really developed ‘settlement’ in the cave system, and the former home to the royal family. You think back to the balcony that you had stood upon, looking out over an empty expanse of deathly quiet city. You think of the smaller occupants of the Ruins, and how they had all seemed clustered close to Toriel’s home. You think of that vast ghost-city and try to imagine it full of monsters, loud and bustling and full of determination to proceed with life as normal, to ignore the unhappy circumstances that led to their incarceration.

You ask what made everyone leave. Toriel looks into her teacup and murmurs that the explorations further into the cave system led to finding more resources and more spacious caves. You get the feeling that that isn’t the whole story, but let it slide.

In turn, Sans reminisces about his own experiences, especially when Papyrus was a ‘baby bones’. You finally get confirmation that Sans is the elder brother (they dance around that subject like a long-familiar and well-known inside joke) and that he’s been taking care of Papyrus for as long as he can remember. He mentions the first time that Papyrus knew he was going to strive to be a Royal Guardsman, and cites it as ‘the day undyne got into the guard herself, after getting her butt whupped by gerson.’

You ask him why he works four jobs, and he goes quiet for a moment before very softly and hesitantly admitting that he’s worked multiple jobs since he was old enough to be paid for his work. One of the necessities of living, and all. Before the Core, they’d had to pay for fuel to burn, or scavenge it from the dump in Waterfall. And for food, and for lodging, for a long time, before they’d managed to scrounge up enough money for a house.

He talks about quiet Christmases, and slipshod gifts, and counting gold bits every other day. He talks about Grillby, and his ‘tab’ (it’s all paid off now, but for a while his tab at Grillbys had been the only reason he could bring home food on a semi-regular basis), and a friendship based initially upon reluctant reliance and a steady hand up out of a deep hole. 

You think about how he’d seemed surprised, when you had insisted on earning your keep. You wonder if he had seen himself, for a moment; you wonder what he had been thinking, when he took you in. Was he paying his own experience forward? Or was he trying to reconcile something in his own past?

He goes on to talk about playing Santa, every year, making sure that Paps got presents that he’d like and keeping his childlike wonder, keeping him happy and hopeful. Toriel murmurs that she did something very similar for most of the occupants of the Ruins, for the longest time. You look at your lap and admit that you haven’t had a really impressive Christmas since you were really little, and after a while it started just feeling like another day -- granted, a day when you got to be at home and spend time with your parents, but even that disappeared after you started working.

The conversation seems to shift naturally toward you, then, and you lean back on the couch and look skyward, admitting that you haven’t really celebrated holidays at all since starting to work in retail. Overtime pay and ‘time-and-a-half’ on holidays was always too important to pass up, so you worked through almost each and every one of them. You worked on your birthday, you worked on Thanksgiving -- for a while, the only real ‘celebration’ you let yourself have was raiding the clearance Valentine’s day chocolate on the fifteenth of February every year. You’ve dated on and off through your teens, but never seemed to have a relationship last through Valentine’s, so the fourteenth never seemed like a holiday worth wasting money on. The fifteenth, or “singles awareness day”, as you jokingly called it, was only worthwhile because all of the chocolate was always half off.

When Toriel asks you why you’ve not had lasting relationships, you just shrug. “Couldn’t stay with them.” you admit. “Most folks want to settle down by twenty three. Put down roots.” you rub awkwardly at your arm. “I… I’m not good at that. At finding a place worth calling ‘home’.” The Word, like it always has, tastes like ashes in your throat. The last time you called anywhere home, you'd been saying goodbye.

You’re not sure how the three of you got on the subjects of talking about sad parts of your pasts, but the tea is flowing and it feels like draining poison from your veins, like breaking and resetting a bone that healed wrong. 

You try to even it out, talking about some of your favorite retail-based stories-- you can’t even count how many times you’ve had a customer ask you for help finding something that was two feet away from them, and you still remember the day that an entire miniature mountain of tupperware containers fell off of their shelves and buried you. You show them the pinprick scars on most of your fingers from sewing and re-stitching new logos on all of your old work shirts, so that you wouldn’t have to buy new ones when you swapped chain names under the same major company umbrella.

Sans asks you if you like working at Grillby’s better so far, and you put your face in your hands giggling helplessly; “Kinda. It’s silly, but I… actually do really love it already.”

You save three pieces of pie on the side -- two for Papyrus, one for Ellie. You feel Sans’ gaze follow you as you carry them to the kitchen, humming softly to yourself as he and Toriel eat their own first slices. You’ll get one slice of pie for now, and let them each have two. If Ellie decides she doesn’t want hers, or if Papyrus decides he only wants one, then you’ll be fine with taking a second.

At the end of the evening, Toriel reluctantly gathers her items back up and announces that she ought to go. You insist that she come back soon for another afternoon, and pull her into a tight hug.

“I’m certain I’ll have to make time, young one.” she laughs and hugs you back, lightly running a pawed hand through your hair. “Just… take care of yourselves. I can tell that you have a good…” she trails off, pulling back and gesturing around the house. “...a good thing in the making here.” 

She reaches over to clasp Sans’ hand, and for a moment, they meet eyes and trade smiles, sad ones, and the air is heavy with that strange emotion from before -- that ‘missed opportunity’ feeling. Then she pulls back and heads for the door. You see her out.

Once she’s gone, the house is quiet. Sans moves over to the coffee table and starts gathering up the plates and the kettle. You hesitate for a few seconds (your heart aches, but you want to be his  _ friend _ , and you can’t allow your other emotions to get in the way of that) before pushing your hands into your hoodie pockets and tossing a smile his way.

You know. Of course you know. You’ve drifted in and out of lives for so long that you’ve seen what potential looks like, and… Sans and Toriel have potential together. It’s the least you can do to be his friend, to at least offer.

“I can set you up, y’know.” you say it conversationally. You’ve gotten really good at hiding your hurts, when they’re not overwhelming. “I bet she’d like Grillby’s. And who knows, a couple of dates...  Drop a couple of corny pickup lines, get her laughing, wine and dine her... “

He looks up at you, an odd look on his face, and you trail off. He’s… almost studying you, his eyes flickering from your eyes to your smile to the very gentle tic in your cheek, to the set of your shoulders, to your hidden hands, and back to your face again. After a few long seconds, he gives you a tired grin. “i appreciate it, but… nah.”

He goes back to picking up the dishes, and you blink, before shaking yourself out of it and joining him. “Why not? You like her, right? And she seemed to like you.”

“maybe.” he shrugs, “but… it’s a path i’ve already stepped off of, and she knows it. i… didn’t realize until meeting her face to face.” he gives a soft, amused laugh, leading the way to the kitchen, “it’s funny… i had a crush on the voice behind the door for the longest time. thought i might be in love with her.” he reaches the counter and starts floating items one by one into the sink (you make a note of that). “it’s… weird, realizing that i’m not.”

“You’re not?” you ask, dragging your step stool out from the side of the sink and stepping up to start scrubbing the dishes clean. “You had a lot of chemistry.”

“maybe. potential exists in all universes… but like i said. it’s a path i’ve already stepped off of.”

You let the water run over your hands and the plate that you’re scrubbing, almost startling when you feel his hand lightly touch your elbow. He’s reaching up, and when you turn your head he’s got that odd, tired, but fond smile on his face again. “thanks for snagging me to help you set up,” he says seriously. “i’m… glad i was here for this.”

Then he pulls his hand back and leaves the kitchen, and you duck your head and return to doing the dishes, your heart in your throat. You do your best to focus on the dishes, but you still have to swallow heavily to try and get some sort of control over yourself.

You…

You could have reached for him.

You could have reached for his hand, in that moment, when he pressed his warm, warm fingertips against your skin.

You could have reached for him. You had done your job of being a good friend, you had stood back when it was right. 

You could have reached forward when that time had passed.

You could have been brave.

Alone in the kitchen, you raise a hand to scrub at your cheeks and tell yourself that the wetness was from your dripping hands, and that it wasn’t there before you lifted them.

_ Coward _ .

* * *

After dinner, you head out to Grillby’s and let Sidney drag you into her booth, and let her press fruity drinks into your hand until the world goes gray and your throat burns worse than your eyes. You let her card her padded fingers through your hair and comb out the knots, let her guide your head down against her shoulder, let her ear fall velvety soft against your cheek. You let Ellie snuggle into your other shoulder, let your two friends offer their meager comfort.

You don’t tell them that something happened.

They simply Know.

You don’t tell them what it was.

They simply Accept.

When the bar finally closes for the night, you sit out on the stoop and watch everyone walk home. You play Candy Crush on your phone until the battery is nearly dead. You walk back to Sans and Papyrus’ house in the dead of night to a silent house, with Ellie already dozing in your hood. You carefully scoop her up and get her situated and comfortable on the top of the couch.

You look up at the second landing, through the blue-glow of Snowdin’s night, at Sans’ closed door--

You burrow down into your quilt, and sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this, my friends, the Snowdin Arc is drifting to a close. The next chapter marks the beginning of the Waterfall push.
> 
> It also unfortunately signals the start of a temporary hiatus. I would like to get a bit more done on Waterfall before we actually jump right into it, because Waterfall has quite a lot of things happening in it, and I want to do it justice. Everyone is free to come rant at me on my tumblr, and I will entertain it with aplomb.
> 
> I simply want to make this experience a worthwhile one. C8
> 
> I will post updates on the hiatus status on tumblr, as well as edit this note personally once I have a set day for when it will end.
> 
> Until then; review, chatter, and bonsoir!
> 
> EDIT: Still on hiatus, but expect at least one chapter on the ninth. <3


	21. Fate Works In Reacharounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's always a reason to leave. There's not always reasons to return.

Time moves forward.

You go to work each day, and from even the first day after Toriel’s visit, everything is almost painfully normal. You smile with customers, and you mean it. You sing in the kitchen, in the shower, in the living room whenever the mood strikes you. Alphys texts you every day. Toriel texts you every few days. Papyrus sends you a string of emoji messages on a regular basis, usually while you’re working. You hang out at the bar with Sans every so often.

You make a game attempt at understanding Mettaton movies, and spend hours each evening sitting with Papyrus and patiently explaining the Rubiks cube, and showing him again and again the parts where he’s messing up. He’s gotten to swapping the corners on the second layer. You methodically re-mix the Rubiks cube for him as many times as he asks, and go over the movement every time. 

If anyone who didn’t know you were to observe you, they wouldn’t think anything was wrong.

But you also don't think twice, three weeks in, the day that Grillby hands you a list of food supplies with a written note “please ask MTT hotel in Core for above items, I can't pass easily through Waterfall with the rain.” You simply tuck the note into your pocket, smile, and head for the door. If you want to be back in Snowdin in time for the dinner rush then you figure that you'd best be out as soon as possible. Ellie is on your shoulder the second you pull on your nicer jacket and mittens where they’re hung by the door. You swing your bag up onto your back as you walk out.

“How’s the flooding?” You ask, and she fluffs her feathers in clear discomfort.

“It’s down, but…”

“Good. I’ll make good time, then.”

You turn toward the exit of town, crunching your way through the snow with a cheerful whistle, and Ellie bumps her head against your cheek. “Hey, but… Undyne is still  _ really _ worked up over finding you, you know? We could ask Sans for a shortcut to the Core, it’s…”

“Ellie.” you cut her off, keeping your eyes straight forward and a dubiously cheerful grin on your face. You feel like a tuning fork that’s out of tune, and every part of you is resonating with  _ wrong _ . It’s all throughout you and has been for a while, and you can’t ignore it anymore. If it wants you to do something stupid to go away,  then you'll do something stupid.

“Sometimes…” You take a deep breath. “Sometimes you can just tell when one of those days is bubbling up inside you. I’m not fighting it.”

“But--”

“Today is a ‘fuck my life’ day, and I’m running straight forward into it and taking it like an  _ adult _ .” You square your shoulders, gently scooping her from her perch and looking her in the eye, “Besides. I can’t run from things forever, and I can’t rely on Sans and Papyrus to avoid my problems forever. Especially not on a job related thing.” You lean your forehead forward until it touches hers. “...well, I mean, I can, but… it’s not right.”

She looks up at you with obvious concern on her face, before sighing and leaning in against your forehead more. 

“If I can't convince you… okay. I'll have your back on this, but I still think it's a dumb idea.”

“Don't get me wrong, it is.” You sigh, letting her step back into her perch. “I know it's stupid, and reckless, et cetera. But I don't want to be reliant, you know? It's one thing to ask for help once in awhile, but… I'd have to keep asking. And I've gotta at least try to fix my own troubles.”

“You're gonna die.” She shakes her head in defeat. “Undyne's gonna kill you.”

“Probably.” You nod, but your tone is mildly cheerful. You lean your head over to press your cheek against her side gently, lowering your voice into something soft and vulnerable. Ellie is probably the only monster you’ll ever be this open with. Because she’s the only one you’ve  _ told _ . “Sometimes I feel like I’m gonna die even when nothing’s going wrong. So… sometimes it’s nice to look at something that really can kill me and pretend that it won’t.”

“...Because knowing that the latter isn’t true makes it easier to tell yourself the first isn’t true too?” she asks back, while you crunch through the quiet mid-afternoon bustle of town. You nod.

“It’s dumb, I know.” You admit. “But it works for me.”

You slow to a stop. The wind is picking up, the closer you get to the edge of town, biting ice shards cutting against your cheeks. Visibility is dropping. You pull your hood up to try and protect your face, and allowing Ellie some protection from the rising blizzard as well.

“Hope this passes before I get back.” you murmur, continuing forward into the winds. It isn’t long before you can barely see five feet in front of you, but your feet hit the wood of the bridge out of town, and you can almost see the place where the blizzard just… stops. There’s almost a line along the ground where the snow no longer reaches, and you can see the faint little buds of golden buttercups pushing out of the fringes of the snow.

(You swear those damn things are everywhere. You’ve seen them bunched up underneath the cover of the Christmas tree, curling around its roots like leeches, and half trampled under the snow on the stoop to Grillby’s. You’ve weeded the ones under the snow near the house.)

There’s a figure, blurred by the blizzard, standing in the center of the bridge out of town. You can’t proceed with them standing there -- they’re obscenely taller than you, and extremely broad shouldered, but have no waist to speak of (ah, Papyrus). You raise one mittened hand to shield your eyes and squint at him.

“Papyrus?” You call out over the wind. He startles visibly, before turning in place and looking at you. There’s… something unsettling about his pose.

“HUMAN…” he starts, sounding confused, “WHY ARE YOU HERE, ON THE EDGE OF TOWN?”

“I’ve gotta head through Waterfall,” you say back, stepping forward into a more reasonable range to converse. “Why are you here?”

“I’M…” he’s shifting uneasily on his feet. “I’M MEANT TO STOP ANY HUMANS FROM PASSING. WHICH-- I DON’T NECESSARILY WANT TO STOP  _ YOU _ , PER SE, I’M CERTAIN THERE ARE PLENTY OF  _ BAD _ HUMANS I OUGHT TO STOP, BUT IT’S… ORDERS FROM UNDYNE, YOU SEE.”

You don’t. But you’re not going to argue that point.

“Well, uh… I’m just gonna slip out past you, if that’s alright? I’ve really gotta get going.” You mean it in terms of ‘if you want to be back by dark’, but he looks  _ hurt _ .

“WHY ARE YOU LEAVING? DON’T YOU LIKE IT HERE? I THOUGHT YOU ENJOYED STAYING WITH US.”

You reel back half a step, shocked, and hold up a hand defensively. “Whoa, Paps, no, it’s not like that. I’m on a--” don’t call it a sidequest, don’t call it a sidequest,  _ please _ don’t call it a sidequest, “a  _ task  _ for Grillby right now. I’ll be back in the evening.”

“BUT WHAT IF YOU’RE LYING? SANS DOES THAT SOMETIMES, WHEN HE DOESN’T WANT ME TO WORRY OVER HIM, AND IT ONLY MAKES ME WORRY MORE! YOU MIGHT JUST BE SAYING THAT TO MAKE ME BACK OFF!” he crosses his arms, the stance altogether far more intimidating than you’d like.

“Papyrus,” you’re holding up both hands placatingly, now, but the air is changing. The subtle weight that’s been resting against your shoulders is seemingly magnifying, and the low-toned buzz of not-quite-sound is intensifying. You see a long, silvery white bone shape appear in his hands, and your focus zeroes in on it with a sense of  _ instinctual terror _ .

This… this is something you’ve felt before?

_ Magic. Attack magic. _

“I’M SORRY, HUMAN, BUT I CANNOT ALLOW YOU TO PASS! EVEN IF UNDYNE HADN’T ORDERED ME TO,” he fidgets, shifting from foot to foot and the hurt and uncertain expression forming on his face again. “...YOU… I... “ he struggles with his words for a few seconds, before mumbling (for him -- it sounds almost normally toned for you), “...Our house is happier, with you staying. I do not  _ want _ you to leave.”

Your eyes are locked on the silvery bone, as he drops into a stance, but you can feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Someone is watching you.  _ Sans _ .

_ Paps tries to capture the human when they try to leave Snowdin. It… it always happens. _

_ I never question that Paps won’t do irreparable damage. _

_ I’m afraid of you. I’m afraid of what you might do. _

You curl your hands into fists, and reluctantly roll your weight onto the balls of your feet, clicking your tongue in the back of your throat. Ellie gives an affirmative chirp and bursts from your hood, fighting the winds to get to safety.

This is a fight. This is a fight you can’t escape. But it’s a fight you can work around.

_ I’ll just have to prove your fears wrong. _

You dodge to the side just before the first row of shimmering bones bursts upward through the ground, aimed at where you had been. Snow lurches up underneath your feet, but your hiking boots can grip the ground beneath, and your momentum is entirely controlled. You pull your arms in close to your body, twisting on your toes, and barely dodge the next line of bones that lurches for you. 

You almost don’t even notice the exact moment when your soul slips free and floats before you, you’re so caught up in dodging the first attacks. You just force yourself to breathe, turning your focus onto the goal at hand -- you can almost close your eyes and let your instinct guide you. It’s strange, how there’s almost a rhythm to it, a give and take. It’s… similar to the rhythm of a good set of sit-ups, with someone holding your legs, the quick but sustainable movement of muscles and momentum, rising and falling with effort.

You twist and weave through two following sets of bones, matching your footfalls with the almost-beat, and it becomes alarmingly easy. It’s like a dance. You open your eyes fully again, breathing heavily, when the beat comes to an end in your-- in your  _ Soul’s _ perception, and you see Papyrus standing a few feet back, looking at you like you’re a fascinating enigma.

“HUMAN.” he starts, practically beaming. “CAN YOU HEAR MY BATTLE THEME?”

_ Battle theme? _

You blink toward him, catching your breath, and tilt your head thoughtfully. “I… maybe?” you breathe, interest sparking in your mind, and a slow grin forms on your face. “Does it have a really bouncy four-four beat? Because I’m definitely getting some sort of sense of that.”

“NYEH HEH HEH!” he pulls his shoulders back, absolutely brimming with pride, and you see a delighted gleam in his eye-glimmers. “YOU ARE CERTAINLY FULL OF SURPRISES, HUMAN!”

You grin back at him, but the slight reprieve is over. He’s launching back into a new line of attacks, though you can feel the shift in the magic making them up -- it feels less hostile, almost like this changed from a legitimate fight to a more friendly spar.

You’re pretty sure you can feel the difference in your perception of Sans’ appraisal, as well. Less guarded, less like a hunter sighted on a deer. Now… now it feels almost  _ impressed _ . Now you feel  _ powerful _ . In control.

Brave.

You feel brave.

_ Isn’t it amazing, _ you think,  _ how being around Papyrus makes me feel Brave? _

You shake the thought from your mind, but can’t quite stop the small, jubilant smile from forming on your lips, as you turn your focus to getting through the next wave of attacks. Ellie is hovering high above you, trilling out encouraging shouts and cheers as you practically dance through it all.

“OH, HUMAN! HUMAN!” Papyrus is bouncing, clearly enjoying himself now as well. “CAN I PLEASE USE MY BLUE ATTACK? I WOULD LIKE TO SEE HOW YOU FARE AGAINST IT!”

You roll your eyes fondly -- you’ve kind of realized that you’re not going to get past him until he’s calmed down enough to pause, legitimately. “Sure, Paps,” you pant, holding up two thumbs up. “But, uh… I am getting kind of tired, and all.”

“OH! WELL, THEN I WILL SPARE YOU AFTER THIS.” he nods, definitively. You can’t entirely tell, considering how loud and proud his voice is, but you would almost think “spare” was capitalized. Theoretically. Like an official thing.

“Blue means freeze!” Ellie crows out just in time, as Papyrus lets free a stream of blue-lighted bones toward you. You lock your limbs in place, trusting her, and the blue bones pass through you with a faint tingle of almost-energy. You shiver, feeling that energy wrap around your soul--

And then you drop to one knee, gasping, as the weight of the world suddenly becomes that much more intense. It’s not  _ painful _ , but it’s definitely a lot more effort to stand up. You look up in time for Papyrus to do a quick, giddy little wiggle.

“IT WORKED! I’VE NEVER DONE IT ON SOMEONE WITH BRAVERY AS THEIR SOUL-TRAIT BEFORE! I WAS AFRAID IT WOULD CANCEL OUT.” He clears his throat, clearly composing himself, before striking a pose, “YOU’RE BLUE NOW! THAT’S MY BLUE ATTACK!”

“Whoa.” you raise a hand toward your soul -- the shifting fire of a burning ember is gone, replaced by a faintly pulsing, flowing azure. The warmth you felt before has also been replaced by what almost feels like the sensation of a sea-breeze, wafting from the rippling ocean that your Soul has become. “It feels… weird. Kind of tingly...? Kind of like cliff diving into the ocean… The downward pull of a freefall, anyway...  And really,  _ really _ heavy.”

“THAT IS THE IDEA!” He nods, “YOU WILL HAVE TO JUMP OVER MY FOLLOWING ATTACKS, WHILE BLUE, BUT YOU ARE WEIGHED DOWN AS WELL. ARE YOU WILLING TO TRY?”

You realize that this is what he meant by Sparing you. He’s giving you an out. But he’s also giving you an In, too.

Another chance to be Brave.

But this time… this time you actually feel like you can handle it.

“Bring it on.” You grin, a determined little flash of teeth, shifting your weight until your center of gravity is the spot bearing most of the effort of keeping you up. You think it’ll make it easier to jump. “Give me your worst, Paps.”

You feel like you should immediately regret saying that, because his next flurry of attacks is  _ brutal _ in the most definitive sense of the word, but you narrow your eyes and focus, and manage to hold your own for the first several leaps without stumbling. In the end, it almost feels… fun.

“We’ve definitely gotta -- do this again sometime--” you joke, between jumps, trying to keep your breathing even. “Because I feel like you’re -- holding back on me -- and I’d love to,  _ hyahp!  _ \--  humor this fight as far as I can take it -- hah! --  but I’ve  _ really _ gotta get going, Paps--”

He startles again, as though remembering that he’s trying to apparently stop you from leaving, and you feel the magic in the air surge into something entirely uncontrollable and overwhelming. You think, for the briefest second, that you might have actually startled him into releasing far more power than he intended to -- you  _ knew _ he was holding himself in check -- but then you see it.

It’s not a bone. It’s a BONE. If there was ever a time to use theoretical caps lock to describe something, it’s now, with this attack.

It’s immense, and sliding toward you at a rate faster than you can dodge it.

Can’t go around it. Can’t go under it. Definitely can’t jump over it.

Gotta go through it.

You react on instinct, feeling the shimmering azure ocean around your soul evaporating as a burst of fire consumes it all at once, lowering your center of gravity further and narrowing your eyes before launching straight forward toward the bone. The orange glow of your Soul seems to grow, like a physical thing, casting its shade across your skin, an ember becoming a wildfire all at once.

It surrounds you, and you impact with the BONE, and then the feeling of solidity gives away through your system and-- you’re not sure if  _ it _ passes through  _ you _ or if  _ you _ pass through  _ it _ , but suddenly you’re rolling onto the ground and coming to a stop on your back on the opposite side of it, breathing heavily, all of your limbs tingling with aftershocks.

Your soul drifts back down into your chest, and all at once the battle is over.

You take one big breath, before dissolving into absolutely hysterical giddy giggles.

“ _ Wow _ .” you breathe, eyes wide, staring upward and carding your hands through your hair as though trying to hold your head on straight. “ _ What _ was  _ that _ ?! That was  _ fantastic, _ oh my  _ stars _ , Papyrus, you’re  _ incredible!  _ That thing was  _ massive _ , I  _ knew _ you were holding out on me, I just  **_knew it_ ** !” You wiggle up into a sitting position, hyperactive with excitement, starting to clap your hands furiously, “ _ Why _ are you not already a Royal Guard, with that kind of skill?!”

His own eyes are wide, and he’s staring at you with a matching ecstatic and admiring glint in his eyes. He rushes over toward you and pulls you up into a giddy, bouncing hug, spinning you around until your feet leave the ground and you’re laughing, you’re both laughing. You’re not sure how you got from bubbling anxiety resonating under your skin to lightheaded, delighted laughter, but all you know is that it’s  _ pretty much obviously entirely Papyrus’ fault  _ and you absolutely fucking  _ love  _ him for it.

“WHAT ABOUT YOU?!” he refutes, putting you down very carefully after a moment and holding your shoulders, his smile literally splitting his face. “I DID NOT INTEND FOR AN UNBLOCKABLE ATTACK, BUT YOU-- HUMAN, YOU DID AN AMAZING!” He hugs you tightly again, and you giggle into his shoulder and hug him just as tightly back, smiling so hard that your cheeks hurt.

Ellie swoops down and connects with the top of your head with an absolutely thrilled shriek, a sound of absolute pride and happiness following it. You’re close to echoing her.

“Oh my god.” you bounce on the balls of your feet, beaming up at him. “I swear, as soon as I get home tonight, we’re trying that again!”

You pull back, laughing again, before slowly catching your breath, wiggling with excitement as you dance around behind him. He turns with you, eyes gleaming, but doesn’t make any further attempt at stopping you -- instead, he gives his own excited little wiggle and raises a hand to return your wave.

“THEN YOU HAD BEST HURRY, HUMAN FRIEND, SO YOU CAN HURRY HOME!” he declares, and you grin, nodding enthusiastically before turning and hurrying off into Waterfall.

Today… today has already gotten a little bit better.

You’ve never felt  **BRAVER** .

\--

_ File.”WhatMakesAPersonBrave”_saved _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hiatus is still on, but I will at least offer one chapter every so often, because I love all of you and I do have the chapters to post even if I don't have my preferred number of backlog chapters. <3
> 
> Guess who's entering an... _interesting_ day.  >:^)


	22. Waterfall

You pull off your mittens within five minutes of walking into Waterfall, noting the immediate rise in temperature in your fingers first and foremost. Then you push your hood down, realizing the chill at the tip of your ears is no longer present, before finally slinging your bag off for a moment so you can remove your jacket with an amused hum. You tie it off around your waist before continuing to walk. Ellie fluffs her feathers and shakes snow out of them, running her beak through her breast feathers to dislodge a few tenacious ice crystals. You’re both walking along the edge of a river, following the slow progression of a large ice block.

(Vaguely-backstory-related knowledge pops up in your head. Sidney had dragged you out to watch Ice Wolf throw big blocks of ice into the river one afternoon as a bonding thing. He had _shoulder_ muscles that admittedly made you drool a little. _Yum_ . Just… _yum._ You’d chatted with him for a few minutes after being unable to hold down a _completely_ appropriate wolf whistle, and he’d invited the both of you to meet his mate and pups some day when his completely useless coworker Toby decided to actually show up and do his damn job for once.

You’d mentioned it at Grillby’s the next day to Greater Dog and an absolutely _mortified_ sounding yelp echoed from his lower body, alerting you to the fact that Toby most likely forgot he _had_ that job.)

“That was wild.” you muse, running your hands through your hair one more time to try and tame it back into place. “I’m sincerely wondering why Paps isn’t a royal guard now. Does Undyne just not know that he’s capable of that kind of power?”

Ellie gives a small, thoughtful trill. “I don’t know. Maybe she doesn’t know. But it might be just as likely that she does know what he’s capable of, but also knows he holds himself back all the time. I’ve not interacted with the folks in Snowdin much before I met you, so I can’t be sure either way. But I do gotta admit it’s pretty nice there. ”

“You knew Sans when we first met him, though?”

“Yeah? Everyone knows Sans.”

“Oh.” you hum, before returning to your former point. “There’s nothing wrong with having self-restraint, though. Especially when it’s the choice between holding yourself back or hurting someone.”

Ellie laughs, but there’s not a lot of humor in it, “I think she’s more worried about someone hurting him than him hurting someone else. If he holds back at a critical moment… it only takes one truly devastating attack to dust a monster, sometimes. And Paps is… Paps seems like the kind to let his guard down without hesitation.” You can only hum pensively at that thought -- it was a similar sentiment to the one Sans had expressed.

You walk around a bend in the path and are brought face to face with a familiar looking sentry station, with an even more familiar skeleton sitting behind the counter. Sans is on his phone, clearly acting as casual as he possibly can, and you decide not to immediately be an ass and admit that you knew he was watching.

“I’m guessing this is sentry job number two?” you ask him as you walk up, your hands in your pockets. He looks up and feigns surprise at seeing you.

“oh, uh. yeah. i’ve got stations in snowdin, throughout waterfall, and in hotland. i’m… surprised you’ve gotten to waterfall. did paps try to stop you?”

You quirk one side of your mouth into a bemused grin and stay quiet, arching one eyebrow toward him and _waiting_. He starts fidgeting within five seconds. Ellie lets out an amused little clicking noise right by your ear, but she’s taking her cue from you and not saying anything.

“...you’re not mad, are you?” he finally asks, quietly, a rueful grin on his face.

“Did I prove your fears wrong?” you ask right back, keeping your pose loose and open and relaxed, keeping a slight grin on your own face.

He lets out a slight sigh, his shoulders slumping and breaking eye contact with you. “i shouldn’t have doubted you, i know.”

“Y’ _think_?” Ellie mutters, amused.

“Sans,” you shake your head and gently bump your cheek against Ellie’s side to ask her to be nice, still smiling, “We’ve been over this, I’m not mad at you for putting Papyrus’ safety above everything else. You’re allowed to be worried about someone hurting Papyrus. _I’d_ be worried if you _weren’t._ ” you look up and smile again. “But you didn’t answer my question. I wasn’t asking whether you should have trusted me or not. I wasn’t asking about _your_ response to things, which isn’t even in question right now. I’m not upset with you for reacting the way you did. I just wanted to know, did I prove your fears wrong?”

“...you did.” he admits, finally meeting your eyes again. “i’m… really grateful for it, and… i’m really sorry that, y’know, i’m like this.”

“Don’t be sorry.” you lean against the counter, folding your arms under you and resting your chin in one hand. “Paps is your  _brother._ I’m just the human who’s crashing on your guys’ couch.”

“Who cooks your food, does your laundry, and does all of your shopping for you.” Ellie chirps, still obviously amused.

“Ellie, that’s my rent.” you roll your eyes, “Don’t be mean.”

“You’re too niiiiice.” she croons teasingly. “And you’re totally not doing it for rent.”

“Um, no, I totally am,” you argue, “because _someone_ won’t accept me actually _paying him money_ instead of mooching off of his generosity.”

Sans snorts, and you cast a quick grin toward him, before noting the fact that his expression has softened remarkably. He puts his own chin in one hand and peers at you for a few seconds, studying your features as he seems increasingly prone to doing. “so…” he finally starts, almost hesitantly, “you… _are_ coming home tonight?”

You open your mouth to give a laughing reply.

And then you freeze.

Your smile drops from your face, and you’re not sure what expression you’re wearing, but you’re certain it has to go through a lot of different emotions -- because you’re _feeling_ a lot of different emotions, and your poker face is mediocre at best.

Somehow, hearing him say it makes you actually realize. You had said it. Papyrus had even said it, mirroring you. And yet you’d not fully registered that you’d said it until Sans used the taboo word.

 _Home_.

You hadn’t called anywhere _home_ for almost over four years, since you first moved out of your parents house into the first shitty apartment, tailing a job that made you feel useful. The places you stayed were just that -- places you stayed. You hadn’t ever even slipped and used the word once, without thinking; it was always “back to the apartment” or “the place you slept”.

And yet… you’d called the skeleton brothers’ house _home_.

The word has always tasted like ashes whenever you used it, has burned in your throat for so long that you’d almost forgotten what it felt like to say it without the acid taste, but you had said it so easily with Papyrus. And here Sans is looking at you, hesitant and hopeful, and patiently waiting for your answer -- giving you a chance to pull back, or to commit. Giving you the _choice_.

You swallow, and Ellie fluffs her feathers by your cheek, sensing your distress. But then you let out a slow breath, something entirely new blooming in your heart and warming your soul, because the weirdest part is… it feels okay.

You _want_ this.

“Yeah.” you say, very slowly, breaking eye contact with him and your voice cracking. “Yeah, that’s the plan. Gotta be home in time to make dinner for my boys, right?” Your voice goes a bit pitchy on the Word (you’re still not used to it) but you don’t stutter.

He reaches across the sentry counter and takes hold of your hand, and gives you the tiniest, most radiant smile that you’ve ever seen from him. He looks so relieved, and happy, and like you’ve just announced you can break the Barrier without any casualties. You give a shaky one back, raising your chin to free the other hand so that you can wipe at your suddenly tearing eyes.

“Gosh.” you mutter. ”Look at me, freaking out over nothing.”

He squeezes your hand immediately, and lightly reaches forward to tilt your chin so that you’ll look at him again. “you’re fine.” he murmurs, still giving you that smile -- it’s doing entirely unfair things to your heart, that smile, and to your Soul, and you want to-- to--

You don’t even know what you want to do. Kiss him? Crawl over the counter and curl up in his arms? Burst entirely into tears?

It takes a deep breath and a mental reminder to yourself that you have a _job_ to do that gets your brain functioning again. You offer one shaky, over-emotional laugh and pull back, giving him one more small smile and a little wave as you quaver; “I’d better get going, though. Grillby’s counting on me.”

“alright,” he nods, sitting back in his station again. “be careful, though. if undyne finds out you’re in waterfall then she’ll probably try to actually kill you.”

“Yeah, what else is new.” You muse, stepping away from his station and turning to continue onward.

It isn’t long before you come to a waterfall blocking your path, but there’s a wooden step staircase descending to your right, and it looks like it hooks out around into the open emptiness, around the waterfall. You’re not sure if it comes up on the other side, but you do know that it might be a way to get around without having to get your feet wet yet.

You start down the staircase, the sound of rushing water and falling trash loud in your ears.

You’re only  _barely_ a reasonable distance away from Sans before Ellie gives a chirpy little giggle and nuzzles your cheek. “You should have kissed him, you know.”

“ _Ellie_.” you hiss with a scandalized giggle.

“Whaaat? You two totally like each other.” She cards her beak gently through the hair above your ear. “And I bet it would have gotten him flustered. It would have been funny.”

“I don’t want to be funny.” You whine softly, looking down at the ground. “It’s dumb, but what if it ruins our friendship? I think he might actually like me as a person now.”

Ellie sighs and leans her head over to press it against your cheek. “Scared of ruining everything, huh?” she asks softly, rhetorically. You nod anyway.

There’s nothing down here, just a tall blue flower that seems to be whispering something. You lean in close and listen--

_...swore I saw something… behind that rushing water…_

You pull back, blinking, and hum thoughtfully -- the flower quietly starts humming after you, and you pretty much immediately feel bad. You hope whoever had whispered the first message wouldn’t be too upset…

You lean forward again, whispering “I swore I saw something, behind that rushing water.”

(It’s the little kindnesses that count, in your opinion. At least the previous voice’s message would be preserved, even if you accidentally erased their voice.)

You retreat, heading back up the stairs again and winding up on the wrong side of the waterfall once more. Looks like you’re gonna have to get your feet wet. You lean down to pull off your boots and socks, stuffing the latter into the former and setting them aside long enough to roll up your pant legs. There are few things in the world more unpleasant than wet socks.

You wade into the water, carefully avoiding the large bits of trash coursing down the current, using your toes to grip at the rocky ground underneath the rapids. About halfway through, you glance at the waterfall out of the corner of your eyes. You really don’t want to wind up soaked…

“Hey, Ellie Bean?” you ask, over the crash of the water.

“Yeah?” she responds, just as loudly in your ear.

“Think you can wing around behind the waterfall and see if there’s anything there? For curiosity’s sake?”

She lets out a little speculative chirp before launching from your shoulder, and you continue the process of carefully wading through the water (you grimace in distaste when a bit of algae gets stuck to your hairy Chewbacca unshaven legs -- hadn’t been able to find a razor down here, yet). She disappears from sight around the side of the waterfall by the time you’re carefully inching up the opposite bank, clinging to the gravelly ground with your toes. There’s tiny buttercups clinging to the bank, swaying with the pull of the water but somehow remaining rooted. You uproot one of them out of spite.

“Just an old tutu!” Ellie’s voice comes faintly over the roar of the water, and she wings back out around the waterfall with said article in her claws. You reach out and catch it when she drops it.

It’s child sized, with the ends tattered and the tulle stained with blue clay, but there’s a name embroidered into the hemming, and you twist it in your hands to get better lighting.

_Lyzi Hale._

Your breath catches in your throat, and a cold feeling settles in your gut, because as improbable as it should be, you _recognize_ that name. It was one of the weird and oddly fortunate parts of having frequent insomnia, all of the best documentaries tended to be on between midnight and three AM. You’d managed to catch one -- oh, about a year ago, it was at least three apartments before you came to the town of Ebott -- about famous missing persons cases, and they’d done a segment on the mysterious disappearances around _Ebott_ …

Elyzibeth Hale, age 9, the most enthusiastic ballet student of her age group, had been one. She reportedly worked twice as hard as many of her other fellow ballet classmates, putting everything she had into every dance she ever did, and refused to back down or quit her classes when she was told that girls with darker skin didn’t make good ballerinas because as they grew, they tended to gain a ‘less than optimal’ body type. She was noted as being ‘prone to wearing her tutu’, and the missing persons report had filed her as having gone missing while wearing it. Your hands start to tremble around the frayed tutu, because… the case went cold, no one ever saw her again. Her family _never knew_.

Her family never knew, and there were six souls down here in the hands of the king, and...

“Oh god.” you breathe, a bit pitchy, and Ellie hovers near your face, clearly worried.

“What is it?” she asks softly.

“It’s… she was just a _kid_.” you bring a hand up to your mouth. “She was just a kid when she fell down here.”

Ellie peers between your face and the tutu, before slow realization forms on her face, and then -- uncomprehending horror. “A human?”

“A _child_ .” you emphasize, feeling sick to your stomach. “She was _nine years old._ ”

“...when did she fall?” Ellie’s voice is quiet, with a sickly note to it that matches your own.

“Close to thirty years ago.” you swallow. “Her younger sister is still alive.” Your hands tighten on the tutu, and a bilious certainty rises in your throat. Six souls. Six people who probably disappeared and were never found. Six people whose families never knew what happened to them.

There were at least seven kids who were confirmed as having gone missing around the Ebott area over the last hundred years and you have a _horrible_ feeling you now know what happened to at least six of them.

Gone without a trace...

_But everyone leaves something behind._

Your soul pulses with an unfamiliar feeling, holding the tutu so close, and you do your best to memorize it. You don’t know if it’s important, but you can’t risk not recognizing if it happens again. For all you know, you’ve just stumbled onto a search sidequest and you have to find all of the memorial tokens, and that soul-pulse might be your only clue that any particular item once belonged to a human like you.

But sidequest or not, this is something you have to do. If you want to continue being the person you like to think you are, then you _have_ to.

You pull your bag off of your shoulders and carefully roll the tutu up into a crumpled ball of fabric, stuffing it down into the bottom of your bag. This is honestly just all the more reason to live despite the RPG unfolding around you. You might be the last witness to what happened to these souls.

You pull your bag back on, lean down to scrub the algae from your legs, roll your pants back down and tug your socks and boots back on with a bitter sense of purpose. Once you’re all put together again, you continue forward. The river swings back around next to your path, and the sound of the water is almost enough to distract you.

“Are you okay?” Ellie asks, hesitantly, as she wings after you, lighting down on your shoulder again.

“No. But that doesn’t matter. This changes nothing.” You breathe slowly, envisioning the venomous sickness in your stomach evaporating like smoke with every exhale. “Just… means I have another thing to think about.”

She’s about to answer, but as you approach a large section of grass that’s almost taller than you are, she goes silent and tenses on your shoulder, her feathers fluffing up. You take her cue and duck down the rest of the way into the grass, staying quiet and holding your breath.

And that’s when you hear the footsteps.


	23. Ascent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dread: n. an intense feeling of anticipation, often paired with reluctance or fear, felt in response to a known or perceived upcoming event. i.e. the ascent toward the first drop on a rollercoaster._
> 
>  
> 
> Have you ever felt so intensely like it's only going to get worse from here?

The sound of boots crunching across gravel from the direction of Snowdin makes you tense, because the only people you can think of who wear boots in Snowdin are Sidney (who you hope has no reason to come to Waterfall) and Papyrus (please, god, don’t be Papyrus…).

“H… HI, UNDYNE!”

It’s Papyrus. You grit your teeth and pretend that it doesn’t bother you.

“YOU CALLED FOR ME?”

“Yeah, Papyrus,” a voice you don't recognize, but who you reason has to be Undyne, replies from the same area to your left, across the river. You can't see anything outside of the tall grass, and you hope that means that you are likewise invisible from outside of it. “I heard a commotion coming from Snowdin, around where you were posted. Did something happen?”

There's an authoritative, warning tone in her(?) voice. You're biting your lip and holding your breath, now, and you sincerely hope that Papyrus has enough wits about him to evade the question. You know how he talks about Undyne, and don't want him to _have_ to lie to someone he obviously admires on your behalf, but at the same time…

“OH, N… NOTHING OF IMMENSE CONCERN, SIMPLY A FRIENDLY SPAR, WITH A FRIEND.” A bit close to the nose, and his small stammer and repetition make you wince automatically, worried that Undyne will pick up on the nerves you can already hear in his voice, but his answer was technically true and essentially evasive like you hoped.

“Well, then the human shouldn't have left Snowdin, right? I would hope you were attentive enough even during a _friendly spar_ ,” there's an almost ironic twist to the words, one that makes you bristle a little bit for Papyrus’ sake, “that you wouldn’t let anyone past you while you were doing it.”

“OF COURSE NOT, I WOULD NEVER LET SOMEONE PASS ME UNINTENTIONALLY!” You close your eyes and let out the slowest, most measured breath you can accomplish. Easy, Paps, don’t get too specific, just stay calm and don’t panic and  _please_ end the conversation as quickly as possible…

“Well, then I guess I just don’t have to _worry_ about any humans being in Waterfall, then!” Undyne, then, raises her voice, and you have the distinct impression that she’s entirely aware of your presence, and trying to make both of you crack. You wince, ducking your head down, and Ellie tightens her talons on your shoulder, giving the softest most disapproving click of her beak that she can manage under the circumstances. She really knows you far better than she takes any credit for, or at least can read you better than she admits, because you’re not sure how she would otherwise be able to tell that you were thinking of ending the charade prematurely.

“A...Ah…” Papyrus stammers, his voice going softer in that uncharacteristic uncertain tone from before -- you don’t like it. You don’t like it when Papyrus is unhappy about anything because he’s _Papyrus_ , and he _deserves the world_. You shoot a desperate glare toward Ellie, but she makes the little clicking noise again, more adamantly this time, and gives you an _are you insane right now?_ look.

At this point, maybe you are. It’s kind of hard to refute, considering you basically accepted a suicide quest with a damn smile on your face earlier today, ran headfirst toward an attack that you _think_ should have meant certain death, you took the plunge on calling somewhere home for the first time in four years and got to experience the emotional upheaval of your entire patented system for running away, and now you’re sincerely tempted to charge headfirst into certain death _again_ just so Undyne will leave Papyrus alone.

...Today is certainly living up to your estimation from before. A ‘Fuck My Life’ day at its finest.

You’re about to throw all caution to the wind and just reveal yourself when you hear Papyrus give a determined, unworried laugh -- and it’s not forced. He’s not faking, somehow.

“WELL, OF COURSE YOU HAVE NO NEED TO WORRY ABOUT ANY HUMANS IN WATERFALL! I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, AM FAR MORE POWERFUL THAN ANY _DANGEROUS_ HUMAN!”

You blink, mostly because you’ve never known Papyrus to tell a bold faced lie like that, at least not with any measure of success about it. He has to believe he’s telling the truth, somehow, without a shadow of a doubt…

Your face lights up and you cover your mouth, beaming, when you realize the unspoken connotation of his words. Of _course_ Undyne has no need to worry about any dangerous humans in Waterfall.

_You’re not dangerous._

You feel kind of like that was the single greatest compliment you’ve gotten all day.

“Awww, Pap.” you breathe, smiling so wide it actually almost hurts. Ellie fluffs her feathers, leaning against your cheek, and you square your shoulders.

Undyne, on the other hand, doesn't sound as impressed. “Tch. Rrrgh. Fine, then. Just… return to your post.” There’s the clanking of armor, and Papyrus makes an affirmative noise before you hear the sounds of his boots heading back toward Snowdin. You hold still for a few seconds, waiting to see if Undyne has also left, before turning in place and coming face to face with a toothy, jubilantly excited smile.

You squeak loudly, and take a step back, rustling the grass around you. The tension in the air spikes and you pick up on the tell-tale spark of attack magic, but your heart is already racing, and you barely pay it any mind, because you’re _staring directly at the little armless kid_.

You don’t even really realize that you’ve stood up entirely out of the tall grass, because the Kid is beaming up at you, and you can’t quite rationalize _why_ he’s standing in front of you, all the way over in Waterfall.

Ellie lets out a startled chirp and reaches over to nip at your ear with her beak, anything to break your focus. You turn automatically toward her with a small sound of hurt, and this, coincidentally, brings your attention across the river.

Where Undyne is standing.

With a glowing magical spear in her hand, ready to throw.

Staring at you.

You turn your head between her and Kid, not quite registering everything. You cast a helplessly confused glance across the river at Undyne, hoping without any real hope that she’ll take some sort of pity on your overwhelmed ass. She lowers the spear a few inches from attack position, almost comically, at your expression.

“So cool.” Kid beams, bouncing up a little bit over the grass to get a sight on Undyne -- your hands twitch and you have to beat down the insane urge to reach over and lift him up, so he can get a better sightline. “Look at that spear! Oh, wow, and she’s looking right at us! Hi Undyne!”

“I…” You stammer, “Kid, you’re supposed to be back in Snowdin.”

“Yeah, but Undyne! She’s right there! She’s so cool, oh man, do you think she’s nice? I bet she’s nice. Come on, I know a way across the river, we can go meet her!”

“Kid--” you stammer, but he’s already off running out of the other side of the grass, bouncing with every other step. You reach a hand up helplessly, as though trying to reach for him to grab him back, before you bring your hands to your face and force yourself to take a moment and _breathe_ , because this is way too much to deal with right now.

 _For fucks sake._ You should probably be running, or terrified, or worried in general that Undyne is staring at you _with a spear in her hands_ , but you’re just…

You cast a glance over the river again, shrugging hopelessly toward Undyne before gesturing after Kid.

“Hey, uh!” you call, kind of inanely, and Ellie puts her face under one wing in severe second-hand embarrassment, because of _course_ you’re going to attempt to talk to the actively threatening head of the Royal Guard. “Can we-- I dunno-- hold off on whatever this is?” you gesture across the river between her and you, “Like-- just long enough for me to grab him and bring him home? I’m pretty sure he’s actually actively grounded right now.”

She lowers the spear another few inches, the helmeted head tilting to one side, and you’re praying to any god that will listen that she’ll have at least some sense of mercy. Either that or you’re praying that she’ll be at least a little bit understanding of how hilariously out of your depth you are right now. Because _wow_ , you’ve fucked this up monumentally in the span of ten seconds, and you were doing so well.

“I swear, we can do the whole spiel of ‘I’m a human and I need to die’ stuff once that, whole… situation... is taken care of!” Your voice has cracked.

“Don’t make promises like that!” Ellie gives a similarly alarmed rebuke, lightly smacking the side of your head with her wing. Her own voice has gone a little pitchy and she’s clearly just as overwhelmed as you are. “Oh my stars, this is dumb.”

“Look I’m just trying to be fair!” You whine, gesturing between yourself and Undyne. “I get it, okay? It’s well established, I’m a human and there’s a crazy backstory reason why most monsters have cause to want me dead, I understand that and I’ve been _trying_ to be reasonable about the entire thing. This is like, her  _job_ , Ellie! Killing me and collecting my soul is her job right now! And I might not be okay with dying but I’m willing to at least compromise and admit I understand that she’s just doing her job!” You throw your hands in the air in overwhelmed defeat. “I even told Alphys, I don’t mind you guys getting my soul! I get it, I get the backstory thing, I’m not against that part in general! I’m just _not done using it yet!_ ”

You only realize you’re yelling the last part once you’re left breathing heavily, pushing your face into your hands and then pushing your hands through your hair. “And for fuck’s sake,” you finally wheeze, “I do _not_ have the time or mental fortitude to deal with all of this right now. I have a job to do too, and a Kid to go drag back to Snowdin by the ear, and this entire RPG bullshit is not something I’m willing to humor right the fuck now, or ever, so _you can bet your feathery butt_ that I’m going to try and approach this like a _normal flipping person_.”

Ellie lets out a hiccupy, unhappy chirp, leaning over to press her forehead against your cheek and squeezing at your shoulder with her talons. You shakily bring a hand up to press your fingers lightly through her rumpled feathers. Apologies aren’t necessary, you both know you’ve mutually freaked out long enough.

You look up and over at Undyne again, noting that she’s lowered the spear entirely, and is still watching you with an intriguing intensity. She hasn’t dismissed the spear yet.

“Please,” you call out again, just shaking your head. “Just… be reasonable, Undyne.”

She dismisses the spear, and you let out a breath of relief. You raise a hand and offer a tiny, hesitant smile her way before turning and hurrying to follow after Kid.

“You realize she’s still going to try and kill you, right?” Ellie asks softly. She’s still a bit ruffled and faint sounding. You manage to reach a spot where the river is no longer in view, and a wall comes up on your left, a small enclosure of rock that gives you something to lean upon. You fall against it and let yourself slide to the ground, breathing shakily.

“Fuck my life.” you murmur, an odd mix of lamenting and cheerful.

* * *

It takes you a few minutes to calm down, but once you do, you push to your feet again. Nothing for it but to keep pushing forward.

The first flower bridge almost makes you laugh, if only so you don’t cry. Puzzles again! You really wonder sometimes why the monsters are all so fond of puzzles everywhere, it’s one of those few things that honestly does not help your perception of this entire experience as an RPG adventure. Is this just… normal for them? Do they not think about it as a minor inconvenience? Is it just like, an everyday thing that they learn to live with?

Ellie hops off of your shoulder after you cross the second bridge, when you stare too long at the sign that’s just out of reach for your line of sight. She flutters over to it, has a hesitant giggle, and then flies back to you.

“It says ‘congratulations! You failed the puzzle.’ Probably meant for you to use a bridge.”

You let out a faint snicker of your own, reading the description of the flowers again on the sign set up near the second bunch of them, before scanning the waterway and trying to mentally plot out the best way of tackling this.

You’re at least glad that the flower bridge puzzles seem pretty simple. It kind of surprises you that the blooms can hold your weight once you do cross, considering you’ve known many types of flowers that crumple once they’re stepped on. The blooms are almost bouncy in consistency, though, made up of seemingly hundreds of tinier flowers that glisten in the water and pile up on top of each other to make a springy, almost spongy mat of plant fibers.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket as soon as you reach the other shore, and you pull it out without hesitation since the only people who have your number and are capable of calling you down here are people you have established as friends or at least friendly acquaintances. The caller ID confirms this, indicating that Papyrus is the one calling.

“Hello?” you ask once you answer it, already feeling a warm fondness in your soul.

“HELLO, HUMAN FRIEND!” You have to pull the phone away from your ear, but you’re still smiling. Rolling your eyes in bemusement, you turn on speaker phone. “ARE THINGS GOING WELL FOR YOU?”

“Yeah, well enough.” You smile, “What’s up?”

“THE CEILING, OF COURSE!” you both share a silly laugh, Paps’ loud ‘NYEH HEH HEH’s nearly drowning out your own weak giggling. After a moment, you both settle. “I JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW THAT I WAS CONCERNED.”

“Concerned?” you repeat, the change of topic immediately making you both serious again.

“YES, CONCERNED! UNDYNE JUST CALLED ME CLAIMING THAT SHE SAW YOU, SHORTLY AFTER SHE DISMISSED ME BACK TO MY POST. ARE YOU ALRIGHT?”

“Well, I’m a little shaken, but all in one piece. Was she angry with you? I know you were supposed to stop humans from leaving Snowdin…” You don’t want to ruin Papyrus’ friendship with Undyne, just because he’s also friends with you.

“SHE EXPRESSED DISAPPOINTMENT AND DISCONTENT, BUT SEEMED MORE CONFUSED OVER WHY I WAS MAKING A CLEAR ATTEMPT TO PROTECT YOU INSTEAD.” Papyrus announces, with the sort of tone that carries both chagrin and pride. “I REITERATED MY PREVIOUS POINT THAT I MADE TO HER -- THAT I WOULD NEVER LET ANY DANGEROUS HUMANS GET PAST ME WITHOUT CAPTURING THEM!”

You bring a hand to your cheek again, smiling once more. “Well, I’m glad you said something to that effect. She did see me, and let me go anyway, for now.” You note that your fingers are still trembling slightly, and the phone is starting to visibly shake. “I really hope this doesn’t mess things up between you and her. I don’t want to make you choose between friendships.”

“WELL, I’M CERTAIN THAT WE CAN WORK THINGS OUT! YOU ARE A GOOD FRIEND, AND UNDYNE IS A GOOD FRIEND, AND I AM A GOOD FRIEND TO BOTH OF YOU, SO CERTAINLY WE CAN ALL THREE BECOME THE BEST FRIENDS EVER.” You find yourself nodding, a fond grin on your face. “I WILL TALK TO YOU LATER, THEN! I HOPE THINGS PROCEED IN A FAVORABLE FASHION FOR YOU!”

“Thanks, Paps.” You laugh, “Talk to you later.”

You end the call and slip your phone back into your pocket, continuing through the shadowy caverns.

The enclosed room you enter brings an odd contentment. The walls are chipped in a wavy pattern, and there are tiny glowing stones between the cracks, as well as sparkling from the ceiling of the room itself. They look kind of like stars, and for a few seconds you find yourself swimming in nostalgia. It reminds you of your old bedroom at your parents house, covered wall to wall with glow in the dark star stickers.

The sign just in front of the door reads “WISHING ROOM”, and there are more of the glowing blue echo flowers littering the ground around you. You lean over to listen to the one closest to the door, sucking your lips in between your teeth so you don’t make a sound and ruin it.

_A long time ago, monsters would whisper their wishes to the stars in the sky… if you hoped with all your heart, your wish would come true… now, all we have are these sparkling stones on the ceiling..._

A chilling jolt of sorrow echoes through your soul, and you bring a hand up to the center of your chest in startlement. You’ve always been at least a little bit empathetic, but the strength of the emotion surprises you. It takes you a moment to realize that the origin of the empathy is your Soul, and after a moment, you rationalize that it must be because you’re more aware of your Soul now. Maybe the empathy was always this strong, but… dulled?

You turn to the next flower, and then the next. Each message makes the feeling in your soul grow more certain.

_Thousands of people wishing together can’t be wrong!... The king will prove that…_

_C’mon sis! Make a wish…_

_I wish my sister and I will see the real stars someday…_

You duck your head as you push onward, down the hallway after Ellie when she leaps from your shoulder. Your heart is in your throat. That was a burst of empathetic unhappiness that you didn’t need on top of all the rest of the happenings of today.

At this point… you almost have to morbidly smile. Today has truly managed to live up to your expectations thus far.


	24. The Friends We Don't Deserve

_Somehow,_

_you don’t know how,_

_the next room is even worse._

Signs line the walls, ones that you can’t pass without reading, and you only realize too late that this is a Backstory Room. Every RPG that didn’t have a tutorial- or pre-story-type backstory dump had at least a few rooms like this, rooms that filled in the empty spots in the player’s understanding of the world, rooms that shaped the experience from within. It hits you like a freight train, a severe disconnect between what you know and what you Know.

You Know that this is a Backstory Room.

You _know_ that this is a war memorial.

You flinch away after just the first sign, the one that only says “The War Of Humans and Monsters.” Somehow, you already know this room is going to be impossible to swallow. Ellie is hovering near the end of the room, looking back at you with obvious worry on her face. You know she’s staying ahead of you to try and keep you moving, you know that she’s doing her best to help you through this, and you appreciate her efforts. But… it’s not enough.

You Know that this is going to be terrible.

You _know_ you have to do it anyway.

Your fingers tremble as you pull out your phone, and tremble even more as you pull up your contacts. You hover over Sidney’s number for a few seconds, then scroll up to ‘THE GREAT PAPYRUS’, and then, with your heart in your throat, you scroll up again to ‘bonehead’.

You press call. He picks up on the second ring.

“ _hey, what’s…_ ” he immediately goes silent when your breath quivers out over the line, and you duck your head, laughing weakly.

“S-Sorry.” you breathe, overwhelmed. “Sorry. I just… need someone else to ground me through this.” You glance up at Ellie, giving her a tremulous, apologetic smile, your eyes burning. She casts a look back at you of pure, somber understanding, and nods toward you. She turns toward the exit, then looks back at you; she’s asking if you want her to leave you be for this.

You feel a little guilty about it, but there are some things that some friends can be too close for, and some things that they can never be close enough for. You don’t know exactly _how_ bad this is going to be, but you know it’s going to be Very Very Bad.

And Sans, as confusing as his overall role might be, is nonetheless an unquestionably steadfast comfort.

Your expression must be enough because Ellie nods again, and wings across the river you can see at the end of the room without question, and your head ducks down again as you let out another overwhelmed laugh.

“ _are you hurt? are you okay?_ ” he asks, a worried edge in his forcefully gentle tone. “ _what’s wrong?_ ”

You hiccup, raising a hand to scrub at your eyes. “I found a war memorial,” you whisper. It feels like you can’t raise your voice any higher than a murmur, right now. “I know this is going to be bad. You don’t have to come here, you’re busy, and I don’t want you putting me before your job, I just… please stay on the line, okay?” Your knuckles are white around your precious, shitty old Nokia.

“ _are you sure you don’t want me there?_ ” he asks, softly, over the line.

“Sans.” you shake your head despite knowing that he can’t see it. Your feet feel rooted, and you know that taking a step will feel like uprooting yourself, like pulling yourself out from the seams where the world has finally stitched you in. “I… I want your help but… I don’t want you to _see_ this.”

He doesn’t speak for a moment, and his voice is softer when he does finally answer. “ _okay. but please… if you're trusting me with this… please trust me enough that you won't have to hide if it gets to be too much, okay? i can be there in an instant. it's okay to not be strong enough to handle something on your own._ ”

“Why do you think I'm calling you?” you ask with a watery smile.

“ _talk to me, then. i’m all ears._ ”

You take a deep breath, turning to the first plaque and tracing the words with your fingers. “Corny.” You're still trembling, but the pun makes him give a soft, encouraging laugh. “Did you know there're actually bones in human ears? I dunno if you and Pap are similar in structure to us in that sense. But they're actually required for us to hear, and they're the smallest bones in the human body.”

_Why did the humans attack? Indeed, it seemed that they had nothing to fear. Humans are unbelievably strong. It would take the SOUL of nearly every monster… just to equal the power of a single human SOUL._

“ _really? that’s... really kind of cool. what kind of bones are they?_ ” he asks, trying to keep you talking as you lift too-heavy feet and move to the next sign. Your fingertips remain against the wall for some sort of stability with the rest of the world, but you can feel the edges of yourself starting to fray. You really hope you don’t dissociate right now.

“They’re tiny -- smaller than my pinky fingernail.” you let out one more trembling laugh, “Most non-scientifically inclined people call them the hammer, the anvil, and the stirrup, from their shapes. I… can’t remember the actual names we gave them. The stirrup is the smallest bone in the body, though.”

_But humans have one weakness. Ironically, it is the strength of their SOUL. Its power allows it to persist outside of the human body, even after death._

You think of the stories of seeing bright lights, of out of body experiences. You think of the last time you felt like you were losing your grip on yourself -- the tightness in your chest, like it was trying to hold onto something with everything it had. You think of children, and you think of persistent souls. Your breath quivers.

“ _that's wild._ ” he murmurs, and you wonder if he knows how much you’re clinging to the sound of his voice right now, you wonder if he knows how beautiful and terrible he sounds. “ _you know, every bone has a different sound to it when it moves? a different pitch? listening to the magic in a human’s movements is one of the most... interesting things, to me. even just breathing._ ” You tighten your hold on the phone and hold it pressed tighter against your ear. “ _r_ _i_ _b bones_ **_bend_ ** _, to a degree. and they’re designed to do that, they don’t start complaining until you push in too hard or push out too hard. and the pitch they make changes depending on their curves.”_

“The pitch?” you’re pressing your free hand against the wall, leaning against it, your eyes locked onto the faded image etched into the next plaque. It’s hard to focus on him, with the unsettling image in front of you. (You’re not sure you can even describe it, or give it a word, other than the dark, instinctual, very _human_ terror that the word _monster_ carries. This is the reason why darkness is scary, this is the senseless, faceless _wrong_ that prompts the fight or flight response.)

(it’s labeled as only “If a monster defeats a human, they can take its SOUL. A monster with a human SOUL… a horrible beast with unfathomable power.”)

(Ţḩ̢e͘͜y̛ ͠͏̡h̶av̸e̛ _̢͢s͏i҉x̶ ͘s̨̡ou͜͡l͘͞s al͢r̛e͡a̷d̷͢͜y̸.̸̕͘_ )

“ _y_ _eah._ ” You finally wrench your eyes away from the picture, shutting them tightly and forcing air through your gritted teeth, and you can hear Sans move on the other end of the line -- you wonder if he had to just physically restrain himself, if he had to stop himself from moving. “ _h_ _uman souls are concentrated magic. they thrum, and pulse, and have a unique music to them… and that music plays off of the rest of their body, and it changes with everything, even something as small as a breath._ ”

You swallow, heavily, and force your feet to move again.

“I’m out of tune,” you whisper it with an up-note on the end, like a joke, but the weird part is it makes _sense_. It makes so much sense to your feelings from before, the feeling of being a tuning fork out of tune, the constant feeling of your anxiety thrumming underneath your skin, as though everything is just a few millimeters off.

“ _n_ _o._ ” Sans refutes, his voice so soft but so sure, “ _y_ _ou’re not out of tune. you’re just an orchestra. you're warming up. getting ready for something big and important and beautiful._ ” You finally open your eyes and find that you’re at the end of the room. Small tremors are running up and down your spine, from the quiet, fond, almost awed sense of certainty he’d had in his voice. “ _i_ _don’t know what your song is going to be, yet, but your soul has so much music that it can’t hold it all in._ ”

It's impossible to hold in the tiny, overwhelmed giggle as you sit down at the edge of the pier, and you push your face into your free hand. “That's not fair.” You murmur into the phone. “It's not fair how easily you can do that.”

“ _do what?_ ” there's a note of concern in his voice.

“Make me feel special.” You mumble, your cheeks burning as you admit it. “You make me feel like I'm something incredible and awesome. It's not fair.” your feet are hanging off into the empty space above the water, and the sound of it lapping around the poles holding the pier up is oddly soothing to you. “I’m a mess right now, it shouldn’t be that easy to make me still feel beautiful.”

“ _y_ _ou’re fine._ ” he murmurs again, in that same tone as before, the one filled with so much quiet certainty and fondness that you feel your cheeks burning even more. “ _i'_ _m just glad i can help you feel better._ ”

“You’re incredible and I’m really grateful I get to know you.” you mumble, “I don’t say nice things often enough to you and Paps but please know that you two are… honestly, probably the closest friends I’ve had in years. I don’t know why you put up with me, sometimes, but I’m glad.” You let out one more shaky laugh, “...honestly, you two are more home to me than I’ve ever known.”

There’s a warmth in your soul, something fragile and sweet, the tiniest spark of starlight in the depths of an ocean, a single flame in a blizzard. It’s quiet, and perfect, and _you_ feel perfect, but it’s so fleeting that you almost think you imagined it.

“ _h_ _ome is where your people are._ ” He finally says, with an almost-humorous up-note. “ _i'm_ _glad we could be your people._ ”

You nod, even though he can’t see you, your mouth curling into a shaky smile. “Thanks for staying on the line with me, Sans.” you take a deep breath, and will your hands to stop shaking. “I’ll let you get back to your job.”

“ _well, it_ **_is_ ** _thrilling, let me tell you._ ”

You laugh, “I’ll talk to you later, bonehead. Go back to being productive.”

“ _fi_ _ne, if i_ ** _must_ ** _._ ”

The line cuts off and you pull your phone away from your ear, making sure the call has ended before slipping it into your pocket again. You sit still at the edge of the pier for a few more moments, recentering yourself, before pushing to your feet again and stepping onto the extended platform.

Machinery whirrs to life under your feet, and the platform drifts away from the pier, moving across the river. You raise a hand to clear the gunk out of your eyes so that you can start looking for Ellie again.

You look up only when the machinery stops underneath you, and then only long enough to step off of the motorized bridge. It whirrs away from you again, and you watch it disappear back into the shadows, squinting. The ambient light in Waterfall seems much lower than that which you’ve grown used to in Snowdin -- still faintly blue-shaded, but less apparent.

Ellie is hovering a few feet in front of you, just before an expanse of long, twisting wooden path through the marshlands. Her head is twisting in tiny little turns, and you realize with a jolt of adrenaline that she’s hovering much more carefully than she usually does -- the familiar sound of her wings displacing the air is much softer than you’re used to.

“Ellie Bean?” you ask, keeping your voice soft, the emotional exhaustion creeping in at the edges.

She startles, turning in the air to look at you, her expression going from a hardened, hunter’s expression to nervous and worried. She flies over to you, hovering in front of your face, and then settles onto your hands when you lift them up to support her.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, your eyebrows knitting together. She’s fidgeting from her perch on your palms. “What is it?”

“It's too quiet.” She murmurs back. “This path is a major thoroughfare through this area of Waterfall, it should have at least a few monsters on it… And I don’t like how quiet the surrounding woods are either. I couldn’t hear anything.”

You bite your lip, thinking hard, remembering a conversation you’d overheard by two small-game hunters a few cities ago when you were in a town just off of the bottom of the Catskills. You knew that hobby-hunting was more or less one of the few things that one could do in that town, and it was strictly monitored and laws were in place to keep the area from being over-hunted. They’d talked about the moments when the wildlife went absolutely silent. From what you’d overheard, it was a major warning sign that a larger, widely recognized predator had entered the area.

In this context… you could only guess that meant Undyne was nearby.

“Did you see Kid?” you ask, despite the heavy th _-thump_ that your heart gives from fear. “He has to have run this way, right?”

“Yeah.” Ellie bobs her head up at you. “He ran through here. The only reason I didn’t follow was because of how quiet everything was.”

“Then I don’t have much choice.” you shrug, aiming for nonchalant, though her talons twitch against your palms and you know that she’s aware of how much effort you’re putting into not showing your fear. “I’ve gotta go get him, he shouldn’t be wandering around alone anyway, and I think he’s grounded on top of that.” Your shoulders inch up toward your ears. “I have to take my chances.”

She leans up to preen gently at your bangs, “You worry me, sometimes.” she admits softly. “You go from entirely sensible, completely responsible, and an almost scarily reasonable person, and you have these… moments? Where I really don’t understand you.” She shifts on her feet, peering up at you with obvious worry. “Like… you say you’re scared all the time, but there are times where you’re so scared that you’re actually brave. Stupid brave. So stupid brave and prideful.”

She fluffs up her wings in apparent irritation. “Like, right now! I think you proved your point today, right? But somehow I just know that you’re still not going to ask for help, and…” she sighs, shaking her head, “You’re lucky I care about you enough to play along with this, you know that?”

“Yes.” You nod, sighing and leaning forward to gently press your forehead against hers. “I do know that.” there’s a familiar note of exhaustion in your voice, and you both take a few seconds with your foreheads pressed together, breathing in with each other and reaffirming the fact that, despite your sometimes-craziness, she’s still here for you and you’re eternally grateful, and sometimes it’s okay to acknowledge that this is weird.

Because, from an objective standpoint? This is weird. Your current best friend in the world, maybe the best that you think you’ve ever had, this person who you feel the most like yourself with, this person who you trust with the stupid and the crazy and the fragile parts of yourself… is a _bird_ . A four ounce, seven-inch tall bird who fits in your hand and who you nonetheless trust, theoretically, with your _soul_ if things go terribly, terribly wrong.

You let out a breath and pull back, offering a wry smile at the thought, and Ellie chirps up a half-amused sound at your expression.

“You just had another stupid-brave thought.” she murmurs, raising a wing to brush a few feathers against your nose.

“If I did, then it’s just because I know you’re there to watch my back, Ellie Bean.” you grin weakly back.

“As long as I can.” she bobs her head with a fierce look in her eyes. “As long as you’ll let me.”

“I don’t deserve you, sometimes.” you laugh a little bit, leaning forward and pressing a very soft kiss on the top of her head. “You’re like… four ounces of whoop-ass and sass, and I’m very glad to have you on my side, but you’re still way better than I deserve.”

She giggles, that fluttery little chirpy hiccup sound that you’ve come to know and love, fluffing up her feathers with a soft, pleased look up at you. “As long as we’re clear on that.”

You nod, looking up and toward the rest of the path, before squaring your shoulders and setting your jaw. “Okay… Time to be brave.”

* * *

_File.“WhatMakesAPersonBrave”_saved_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a note, the save points do not necessarily mean that doom or danger is impending. MC has a heightened sense of incoming danger, yes, but most of the save points are being done almost reflexively, without her conscious control.


	25. The Consequences of Stubborn Pride

At first, you walk. You walk because you don’t want to let it show how your heart is pounding in your chest, you walk because you’re _not nervous, not even a bit._ You walk, because you have nothing to be afraid of and no reason to be afraid. You walk because you're a sensible person on an _errand,_ and not a heroine in enemy territory.

And then the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and you feel a telltale buzz of attack magic in the near vicinity. You inhale sharply, but keep your eyes forward.

Sensible person on an errand. Not a heroine. _Life isn’t an RPG_.

The first spear clips the back of your hair, and you realize that you’ve sped up, but if you hadn’t, it would have passed through your skull. You immediately swallow heavily and speed up a bit more, power-walking down the path and starting to tremble again.

The second spear barely passes behind you. The third is even closer. You up your speed to a jog.

And then a line of burning agony opens along your left arm, just under your shoulder, and a spear passes in front of you, its tip coated in blood. Ellie leaps from your shoulder and wings forward, giving an alarmed chirp. You don’t think -- you run.

The burning electrical feeling on your arm is spreading, followed by a numbness and a coldness that alarms you. You chance looking down at your shoulder, and have to immediately bite down a wave of horrified nausea.

Blood is sluicing down to douse your arm, flowing freely from a five inch long laceration along the curve of your arm, perpendicular to the ground. The edges are practically bubbling, peeling away from each other like you’ve been scalded. Your feet almost slip as you throw your weight around curves in the path, dodging further spears and gripping your shoulder to try and stem the blood flow. The too-warm, sticky sensation of blood seeping through your fingers is enough to flood your system with adrenaline, which is _really not helping_ , since your blood is flowing faster, and--

And _fuck your arm is going alarmingly cold_ \--

You might be going into shock. No, wait. You’re _definitely_ going into shock, because you know this feeling. This is something that your panic-inclined ass is horrifically familiar with.

It’s also kind of just occurred to you that _you’re really bleeding quite a lot._

You dodge another wave of spears, reluctantly letting go of your arm to swing your backpack off of your good arm and try and dig your blood-covered fingers through it, until you find the spare pair of tube-socks that you’d stuffed into one of the pockets on your last shopping trip. You pull them apart with your still-functional-if-bloody hand and your mouth as you continue running, your breath coming in uneven gasps, and work with adrenaline-fueled efficiency to pull one sock around the upper half of your arm. You tug it into a semi-tight knot with your teeth, forming a makeshift tourniquet.

Then you tie the other sock over the wound itself, wrapping it multiple times and then likewise tying it off. Each pounding footfall is sending small jolts of burning torment through your arm, but the tourniquet is at least helping. Your makeshift bandage will hopefully keep you from bleeding out.

Your minimal first-aid training is screaming at you that you really should not be doing this while running, but the rest of you is screaming even louder for you to keep running, because _you’re gonna fucking die if you stop._

It isn’t until you throw yourself bodily into another patch of tall grass (your bag flung off nearby) that you let yourself stop. Almost frantically you untie your jacket from around your waist and pull it on, hoping beyond hope that the similar colored material will help you blend in. You curl in on yourself and wrap your arms around your head, the grass swaying and then going still around your prone form as you instinctively try to protect the most vulnerable parts of yourself. Your heart is hammering in your ears and you’re holding your breath, trembling from head to toe and willing yourself to remain _absolutely silent_.

You feel more than you see or hear the spears flying past the grass, still too close for comfort. You hear the loudly echoing armored footfalls approach, hear the grass move as Undyne enters the patch, and then…

There’s a pause. You don’t dare move to find out what’s happening, but then you hear an aggravated “Nnngahhh!” and hear the footfalls retreating again, leaving the grass behind and tromping away down the path again. You hold your breath until you literally cannot hold it anymore, letting out the tiniest possible wheeze and falling to the right, curling tighter into fetal position and whimpering into your knees.

The grass rustles around you again, and your eyes fly open. There, standing near you in the tall grass, is Kid again.

“Whoa.” he breathes, bouncing on his feet. “Undyne just touched me! I’m never washing my face again!” he’s absolutely beaming, “It’s too bad you missed seeing it. She looked really angry though, I don’t know why.”

Your arm is throbbing, but the wound is covered, and no matter how freaked out you are, you’re not about to impart the fear of death itself upon a kid who can’t be older than ten.

Instead, you give him a look of breathless, exasperated irritation, and try to breathe until your voice won’t shake. Unfortunately, he doesn’t seem to recognize that you’re attempting to telepathically channel Toriel and _Mom_ him into submission.

“You were really unlucky, though! She completely missed seeing you. But I guess there’s always next time!” he bounces again, backwards through the grass, beaming so wide that you feel a surge of despair. You raise your one good arm to try and grab for him, but he dances out of reach without even seeming to notice your attempt.

“Come on, I bet we’ll see her again!”

And off he goes again, dashing away before you can even trust yourself to speak.

_...can we stop?_ Your Rational self begs, and you put your face into your hands. _Can this be enough?_

You let out a wheezing, delirious laugh, struggling to hold onto your sanity and your patience. He’s a kid. He’s _a kid_. Don’t scream at the kid, _christ._

_\--too much too much too much too much--_ your Anxiety mumbles on repeat, tremors sneaking down your legs as you force yourself to your feet.

_We’re okay._ Your Professional Image section insists, and you feel yourself take a deep breath. Your left arm has gone mostly numb from the slowed blood flow from your sock tourniquet, but at least you’re still fucking alive right now. _We’re okay_ , your Professional Image insists again, _Not dead. Not dying. Even almost uninjured. Objectively speaking, we’re actually doing better than our first few days here._

**_Fuck you_** _._ Your Irrationality snarls.

_\--too much too much too much too much--_ Your Anxiety continues its mantra, but it’s so familiar to you at this point in your life that it’s practically background noise, and you can almost fucking ignore it outright, out of simple spite for the damn portion of yourself that doesn’t want to _fucking work right_.

**_Quiet_**. You take one more deep breath, dropping your hands from your face and making a generalized _stop_ gesture at the world around you, but mostly at yourself. _Y’all are going to make me_ **_panic_ ** _right now and I don’t_ **_fucking need another panic attack_**.

To your dubious surprise and relief, it seems to work. You focus on your breathing and the unhelpful parts of your personality shut the hell up. After a moment, the adrenaline starts to ease away, and you feel less like you’re teetering on the edge of a cliff.

_Now,_ you think fiercely to yourself. _I’m going to go back to acting like a normal, fully functioning person running an errand. And I better not hear any objections. I’m going to deal with the problem in the best way that I know how, and none of you are allowed to make me fall apart until we’re safe at home with hot cocoa and Sans and Papyrus there to help put me together again._ **_Got it_** _?_

You don’t get an ‘audible’ agreement from your perceived parts, but the silence is, in its own way, all the confirmation you need. You let out one more breath and open your eyes again, before recovering your bag and continuing forward. You would like to make sure you reach somewhere at least vaguely ‘safe’ before you dawdle anywhere.

Ellie wings down to land on your shoulder, ducking her head down and fluffing up her feathers to adopt a look of embarrassed contricity.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, “For… y’know. I panicked.”

“Believe me, Ellie, I will never fault you for panicking and flying off for your own good.” You answer wearily, leaning your head over to touch your cheek to her wing. “I'm just happy you came back.”

“But I shouldn't have left you in the first place.” She mumbles miserably. “I said I would help keep you safe. I can't do that by flying away.” She gives a hiccupy, unhappy chirp, “And you got hurt. I could’ve at least gone over to distract Undyne--”

“Ellie.” you turn your head toward her, too tired to be forceful, smiling weakly. “It’s okay. What’s done is done. And I would honestly feel a lot worse if you got _yourself_ hurt trying to protect _me_. So please, don’t beat yourself up over this?” You shake your head faintly when she opens her beak to protest. “We already established that I don’t deserve you.”

“You don’t actually believe that, do you?” she asks, fluffing up and giving you a tiny, uncomprehending glare. “Gosh. I’m your friend, silly. I _want_ to help you.”

You raise your right hand and press it gently against her in the closest thing you can do to hugging her. “Just don't put yourself in any unnecessary danger, Ellie Bean,” you murmur. “I'm your friend too, and I want to see _you_ hurt about as much as you want to see _me_ hurt. Which, I hope has no need for question, is not at all.”

“You're hopeless.” She sighs, with a note of dismayed acquiescence.

You step into the next room and immediately make sure that your injured left arm isn't too stiff or unnatural the second that you see Sans, who is standing near an old but fancy looking telescope. You push your bloody hands into the pockets of your coat and plaster the fakest feeling smile onto your face, because you don't want to worry him. You're incredibly grateful that your jacket is a thick enough material that the blood isn't seeping through on the arm.

Nonetheless, he has still barely looked up at you before the pleased and anticipatory smile he had on his face drops away into immediate dismay.

“you’re _hurt_.” he blurts, taking a step away from the telescope, immediately raising a hand up as though reaching toward you, and he only stops when Ellie lets out a downright _annoyed_ sounding chirp.

“Sans! _Rude._ ” She fluffs up on your shoulder, giving him the strongest possible glare that she can manage.

“what?”

You, for your part, have frozen, looking between the two of them with your confusion surely etched upon your face.

“There’s no possible way you could know that just by looking at her! I wouldn’t even know if I hadn’t _seen_ it happen!” She loosens a wing from her perch and gestures at his face with it, “So the only way _you'd_ know it is if you were being _very rude_.”

He blinks, and you can see the moment when realization creeps over his features, followed very quickly by embarrassment and the slightest bit of shame. “oh, er--”

“Hey, uh.” you tilt your head, too tired to really speak up against the tension in the air, but nonetheless hoping to head off the awkward confrontation. “Tired and clueless and woefully socially ignorant human here. Why is Sans rude at this point?”

Ellie fluffs up next to your cheek, letting out a tiny huff. “He Looked at your Soul.” she announces, and you can practically hear the capital letters. “That’s the only way he could’ve known you were hurt, considering. Your arm is covered and you’re hiding your bloody hands. He can’t possibly have known otherwise.”

Sans has lifted a hand to rub awkwardly at the back of his head, and is avoiding eye contact, “s… sorry, i didn’t even realize i was doing it, it’s…”

You tilt your head a bit further, “...and that’s… rude?”

“He didn’t ask you permission.” Ellie explains, primly, “The Soul is a really personal part of you, y’know?”

“Yeah, but...” you pause, humming slightly in thought, “I mean, I’m sure there’s a whole societal thing for you guys on that front, but like… I’ve had monsters pull my Soul out into the open and _attack_ me. Just _looking_ is kind of minor compared to that, and you guys are…” you look down at your feet, oddly embarrassed. “...erm, y’know, people I trust and junk.”

Sans glances upward at you with a nervous, hopeful expression.

“Besides, uh.” you offer one awkward grin of your own, “It sounds like it wasn’t even a conscious decision on his part, so… y’know, live and learn.” you shrug, “No harm done, can do better in the future, that sort of thing?”

“You’re _way_ too forgiving of _everything_.” Ellie groans in frustration, hopping off of your shoulder and starting to hover near you both. “I swear, if I’m not upset for you, then you won’t let anyone be.”

“Ellie.” you implore, meeting her eyes with a helpless, pleading look. It’s _Sans_. You can’t stay mad at Sans. Besides, he apologized already, and even more than that his first response to knowing you were hurt was _blatant concern_. How can you be mad at that? You’re just...

Your heart is starting to hurt, with how intense your emotional responses to him are becoming.

She deflates a little, probably piecing together facts that are all too obvious to you, and sighs. “Fine, fine. But if he does it again I’m telling Papyrus. You don’t give _anyone_ unrestrained access to your Soul, it’s just common sense. _Everyone_ has to ask permission in polite company.”

“I think that’s fair.” you nod, stepping toward Sans and offering one tired, apologetic smile before pulling your hands from your pockets (he inhales sharply at the red stains on your fingers), pulling your bag off and then shrugging off your jacket and tying it around your waist again. You take a few seconds to carefully untie the sock that was covering the actual wound, but leave your tourniquet tied, for the moment.

The spot on your arm where the spear hit has turned a faint aquamarine color at the edges, and tingles slightly over the tourniquet-forced numbness throughout your arm. There’s an intriguing latticework of bruising and red marks spreading from the initial slice mark, where your skin is peeling away, like a particularly bad sunburn.

Sans lifts a hand toward it as though he’s in a trance, his expression troubled. He hesitates a few inches away from actually touching it, though, glancing up at you and grimacing anxiously. “can i?” he asks, weakly.

“I don’t see how you can make it worse.” you go for humorous, but it falls pitifully flat.

“i can’t do much to make it better,” he mumbles, returning his gaze to the wound and concentrating, a furrow appearing between his brow bones. “my healing’s not the best…”

You pull in a hiss of air at the first touch, because it _stings_. The wound sizzles like pure electricity at the slightest touch, and for a second you think you can smell ozone in the air. His right eye socket goes entirely dark while his left eyelight flashes to a bright cyan blue, then fades to a pale green. It’s not as bright as you remember the light flowing around Toriel’s hands had been, but slowly the electric feeling starts to subside.

You’re trembling, but you hold still and try to breathe through it. It’s entirely different feeling from what had happened when Toriel healed you -- when she did so, it had felt like a campfire was sending warmth throughout your system, everything knitting together at once and problems immediately fixing themselves. Sans’ magic is… not _uncomfortable_ , per se, but it feels rough around the edges, like a cat’s tongue. It’s not the warmth that you had felt with Toriel, either, it’s rather similar to the way you’d felt when Papyrus had made you Blue… heavy, and sluggish. It’s spreading slowly from the wound itself, and carries a slight chill to it.

You watch, breathing shakily and morbidly fascinated, as your arm stops bleeding entirely, and the skin starts to knit itself together again. Once the skin has sealed itself you carefully untie your tourniquet, sending a flood of pins and needles down your arm as normal blood flow is reestablished. It’s still incredibly sore, and the healing stops once it reaches scab state (which you still have to reason is better than nothing).

Sans pulls his hand back immediately once the heavy feeling dissipates, his eyes fading back to normal. There’s a faintly drained, winded sort of look on his face, and a few beads of perspiration on the top of his skull. “i’m sorry, it’s not much, i can go get paps if you want, he’s better at healing than i am--”

He lets out a startled little grunt when you throw your arms around his neck, pressing your face into his shoulder. “It’s enough,” you murmur, squeezing around his shoulders, “Thank you.”

He holds still for a few seconds, before gingerly wrapping his own arms around your waist, hugging you back and deflating a little bit himself. “you sure? that arm isn’t gonna be as strong as the other until you get it fully healed...”

“I don’t run the chance of bleeding to death anymore.” You point out, giggling weakly as you pull back enough to look him in the eye. “It’s enough.”

He sighs, reluctantly letting you go, but he nonetheless gives you a tentative smile. “if you’re sure.” he says, softly, before taking your hand, “come on, at least sit with me for a few minutes and settle down. you’re quivering like a moldsmol.”

You let him lead you over to the wall, and settle down next to him, pressing your uninjured arm against his and letting the familiar warmth he gives off seep into your bowstring-tight muscles.

_No matter what happens,_ you think, _at least I have this._


	26. What Goes Unsaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emotions can be complex, but sometimes not saying anything is enough.

You stay with him for a few minutes, listening to the ambient sounds of rain and the distant crashing of the waterfall, and letting the dampness of the air frizz your hair out. Normally you would be uncomfortable and terrified of letting anyone, let alone someone you  _ really really liked _ , see you like this. But Ellie is nestled down comfortably between your shoulder and neck, and his hand has clasped around yours, and somehow, you aren't as worried about looking bad. 

They’ve seen you at your worst, after all. Or at the worst that you’ve ever let anyone see you.

You know that you really should get back up and get back to moving again -- you’ll be away from home until quite late if you don’t, at this rate, or you’ll have to cave in and ask for a lift to and from Hotland, and it’s dumb, but you  _ really _ don’t want to have to do that. If there was one thing of which you could ever be proud of yourself, it was the fact that you kept to your word -- when you said you were going to do something, by the stars, you did your damnedest to  _ do it. _ You didn’t like having to ask for help all the time.

But still, you’re incredibly reluctant to leave. Is it cheesy to think that you want this moment to extend on forever? That you want to hold onto his hand and look up at the sparkling stones on the ceiling, and pretend that they’re stars, and… and… 

You squeeze his hand, a wave of melancholy surging through your system. “I wish I could show you guys real stars.” you murmur, without looking away from the sparkling stones up above. “This doesn’t quite compare.”

“i s’pose it wouldn’t, to someone who’s already seen them.” he hums back, leaning over until his shoulder is pressed firmly against yours, and you tilt your head over to rest against it. 

“That's just all the more reason I wish I could show you.” You sigh, sagging against him. “There’s just… something about laying out under an endless sky, ‘specially in this part of the country. Not so many big cities clogging up the air. You can lay down and see the stars from horizon to horizon on some nights.”

You close your eyes, breathing in the damp, mossy smell of the world around you, and call up the memory that is thrumming in the back of your mind. Grass damp with dew soaking into your back, the chill of early morning numbing your skin, the stars burning cold and distant and bright in the clear air, pure white specks against the darkest possible cloudless sky. Knowing they would be there long after you were gone and feeling so tiny and insignificant, and yet filling up with the great vastness of the sky until there was no room left in your head for  _ wrong _ . 

“Laying out under the stars, until they’re all you can see…” you mumble against his shoulder, chasing the emotion. “...makes otherwise immense problems seem very small.”

He shifts a bit to accommodate you better, and you have to fight valiantly against the desire to stay right where you are, and get his help later. It's only the whisper of your common sense that reminds you that Undyne definitely knows you're here, and that she'd know if you suddenly weren't here. You don't know if she knows Sans can teleport, but between your pride and your refusal to even potentially trouble anyone else with things you can handle perfectly well on your own…

You sigh, sitting up and knowing that this is a stupid plan, but it's your plan and you're sticking with it. You squeeze his hand one last time, before offering an apologetic smile. “I really have to keep moving… I'll be home tonight.”

He nods, but you notice that he takes almost a full second too long to actually let go of your hand. “be careful, alright?” he says softly, “i know this is something you… feel like you gotta do. but really, if you ever need help, i… i’m more than willing. it only takes a text.” He squeezes your hand one more time before finally letting go, looking away in a clear attempt to hide the slight grimace you see form on his face. “even if you just… i dunno, want me to get someone else and bring them to you.”

Ellie fluffs up on your shoulder as though to say something and you  _ immediately _ send her a quick pleading look, making her click her beak shut and pout up at you. You raise an eyebrow and in response get a forceful little jerk of her head, as if she's saying  _ you say it then!  _ The entire exchange happens while Sans is turned away. 

You pull in a breath through your nose and lean over toward him, carefully lifting a hand to press against his cheek and turn his head toward you again. “Hey,” you say, slowly and purposefully, leaning your head forward to make and keep eye contact. “I called  _ you _ for help, before.” 

His eyes have gone a little bit wide, and they’re locked on yours like you’re a lighthouse in the midst of a terrible storm. You quirk your mouth into a hesitant grin toward him, “Today’s been… kind of crazy.” You admit, shrugging helplessly, “You’ve kept me going twice now. Three times, if we wanna count me wanting to prove you wrong about fighting Paps.” your hand flexes against his cheek, and he reaches up to really hesitantly press his own hand over it. You press your forehead gently against his, trying to emphasise the importance of your next words. “I know I can depend on you. And you are  _ always  _ going to be my first choice.”

“always?” he repeats, a little bit tremulously.

“As long as you’ll have me.” you amend. “And as long as I can be the same to you.”

His hand tightens around yours again, pressing it more firmly against his cheek and closing his eyes, like he’s clinging to the simple sensation of your skin against his face. “now who’s not being fair?” he asks, with a shaky laugh, before opening his eyes again and looking at you. Just… looking at you. He’s got that tiny, radiant smile that does completely uncalled for things to your heart on his face, and a warm, uncertain glow in his eyelights.

In the depths of your soul, that tiny fragile feeling returns -- the starlight-under-ocean-fire-in-a-blizzard feeling. It doesn't disappear the way it had before, remaining a quiet and comforting presence in your soul. You flex your fingers against his cheek and he reluctantly lets you go again, letting you stand and stretch. You knuckle the center of your back with a soft sigh even as the soft feeling eases some of the tension from your muscles from within. Then you go scoop up your bag again and swing it onto your back.

“i was gonna ask if you wanted to look through the telescope.” He mentions wryly, “but i guess it's a moot point now.”

You glance at the telescope before quirking the side of your mouth in a quick, forced grin toward him. 

“Some other time.” You say, softly. You don’t dare acknowledge the whispering thought that wistfully wishes you could put off looking through the old but serviceable looking telescope until both of you are on the surface again. You have to accept, at some point, that that’s… just… never happening.

Or… at least, it’s never happening with you there with him.

You let your mind replace yourself in the mental image with Papyrus, and let your imagining carry your feet forward again, even as you wave back at him. If there's any thought that makes it worth accepting that you're going to die under this mountain one way or another, then it's that thought. Imagining Papyrus getting to see the stars fills you with a curious surety and contentment with your own inevitable mortality.

You don't  _ want _ to die, but happy endings aren't always mutually achievable. You can accept that much even if you're stubbornly hoping you can cheat the system somehow. Even logically accepting it doesn't mean you have to emotionally give up your desire for everyone to have the happy endings they deserve, right? 

You bring a hand up to idly rub at the still-sore spot on your arm, grimacing to yourself as you duck around the corner again. You lean against the wall and breathe for a few seconds, until you feel an odd surge of magic in the air. A quick glance around the corner again reveals that Sans is gone. He must have done that teleporting thing.

You return to leaning against the wall, and close your eyes.

“Are you okay?” Ellie asks, softly, from your shoulder.

“No.” you shake your head. “Today’s been an emotional roller coaster and I’ll be happy when it’s over.”

Ellie blinks, “What’s a… roller coaster?”

You can’t help it. You let out a tiny little chortle, ducking your head down and lifting a hand to cover your eyes, a bubble of anxious hilarity overwhelming you for a few seconds before you shake your head and breathe again. “Never change, Ellie Bean.” you murmur. 

_ And when you do finally see a roller coaster, think of me! _

“No, but really, what’s a roller coaster?” she sounds genuinely confused. “What’s the context? I don’t understand.”

You lift your hands, giving one more stifled giggle, before trying to explain, gesturing vaguely as you do. “Okay, so, humans have these places called amusement parks, right? Basically giant places to just go and have fun, that are usually way too expensive to actually go to on any reasonably regular basis. Kids adore them and adults hate them because they’re so shittily expensive.” You shake your head, “But that’s tangential. Basically, roller coasters are the epitome of amusement park bullshit. It’s this big track with… well, basically carts with seat belts? On it. And the track goes up and down and through loops and all sorts of twists and crazy stuff at breakneck speeds. And people  _ ride _ them.”

“Ohhh!” she makes a sound of intrigued understanding, “So like when I fly as fast as I can and weave through trees and stuff? Lots of whiplash?”

“Yeah.” you nod. It’s weird, but explaining this is helping you feel a little more in control again. You’re not sure if Ellie did this on purpose or if it’s just an unintended bonus, but you’re not looking a gift horse in the mouth. “So like, the saying that I used, that today’s been an emotional roller coaster? Basically means there’s been way too many fast ups and downs for my tastes.”

She hums, fluffing her feathers thoughtfully, the feathers on the crest of her head lifting. “And people…  _ like _ these ‘roller coasters’?”

“Mostly, yeah.”

“But the saying is a negative one?”

“Mhm, usually.”

“...Humans are weird.” she finally announces, nodding decisively.

“Hey,” you draw yourself up in mock-aggravation, stopping long enough at the Nice Cream vendor to buy two Nice Creams. You unwrap one, and hold up the other toward Ellie, “I resemble that remark.”

Ellie gives another chittery giggle, bobbing her head in a nod toward your unasked question, and you unwrap the second Nice Cream, lifting both up -- one to your own mouth, the other so that she can get at it.

You’re both quiet for a few minutes, eating your treats while you walk down the path. The Nice Cream sticks to your tongue in that pleasantly familiar way that ice cream does, and you find yourself smiling at the vaguely sticky sweetness. Ellie turns her head toward a path when a fork in the road pops up, and you follow her directions, reasoning that she actually knows where you are. The flowers whisper fragments of conversation as you pass them.

_...so? Don’t you have any wishes to make?... _

_...hm… just one, but… it’s kind of stupid… _

You peer down one path at another fork in the road, even while Ellie gestures to keep going straight. There’s a lingering feeling of allure, quiet and pulling, like someone’s calling for you from a long distance away -- or like you’ve overheard your name, but aren’t sure where it came from. Lowering your voice so you don’t override the conversations on the echo flowers, you breathe out, “Half a sec’, I’m curious.”

Ellie gives an amused little affirmative chirp, and you walk down the path, glancing around once it comes to a dead end. All there is here is a patch of tall overgrown grass, but…

...is that… is the grass disturbed, in the middle there? Like something’s laying in the patch?

You inch forward, peering down, and your Soul pulses -- all at once, you realize what you’ve found. Another token from the previous Souls. Your hands are shaking, but you reach down to pick the item out of the grass, and reveal a muddy pair of ballet flats, tied together by the straps. They’re the same faded blue color as Lyzi’s tutu, and you know immediately that these must have also been hers.

You pull in an inhale, and sling your bag off of your shoulders, releasing the breath as you carefully tuck the muddy ballet shoes in next to the rolled up tutu. You are not going to make a scene every time you find one of these items, you decide. You’re not going to lose it. You’re just going to… to keep your eyes open, and gather them, and keep them safe and intact, and save them for later when you actually have the power to do something about them.

Maybe you’ll store them in the old bag… the smaller one that you’d snagged from Toriel’s home. It would probably have enough space for things.

“Are those hers?” Ellie asks softly, “The kid human’s?”

“Lyzi’s.” you nod, keeping your emotions carefully in check. “I think so. They match the tutu.”

“...You said she fell down here about 30 years ago, right?”

“Mhm.”

Ellie is quiet for a few seconds, curling down closer to your cheek. “Gerson must have found her.” she mumbles, almost to herself. “But… it’s hard to imagine him doing something like that... especially to a  _ kid _ … He wouldn’t… would he?” 

You don’t answer; instead, you pull your bag back on over your shoulders (wincing at a twinge of pain in your still half-healed arm) and turn back the way you came. It isn't your place to say anything one way or another on this matter -- Ellie had spoken the name  _ Gerson  _ the way that Papyrus usually said  _ Undyne _ , with quiet reverence that spoke of a long time adoration and personal-hero-status.

It's not your place to discourage anyone from admiring their heroes, just the same as how it’s not anyone else’s business how much you’ve come to adore and admire Papyrus as a person you would choose to emulate. People aren't perfect. The traits that others admire and look up to are none of your business, and it’s not your place to tell anyone they’re admiring the  _ wrong person _ . And in the end… if she chooses to hold faith in her  _ Hero _ , rather than the certain disappointment that you must be in comparison, you can’t allow yourself to hold it against her.

You have no right to  _ force _ a change in the choices of anyone else.

The flowers around you continue whispering, as you continue walking along the paths. Ellie remains silent, lost in her own thoughts, and you let your attention wander back to the conversation playing out around you.

_...Don’t say that!... Come on, I promise I won’t laugh… _

They’re two childish voices, thinly pitched, yet eloquent. The first is cheerful, with a bit of a bleating undertone, similar to the trill you had picked up on Toriel’s vowels. The second is quieter, more deliberate, even if they pause for longer to choose their words. 

You feel like you recognise the second voice, but you cannot, for the  _ life _ of you, place where you’ve heard it before.

You’ve reached a nice pace where you can follow the conversation as it unfolds, and reason that these kids must have been walking at about this pace, however long ago. An odd feeling of melancholy humor is pulsing in your soul with each flower’s whisper.

_...I know you won’t, because I’m not telling you… _

_...Aww, come on, I’ll tell you mine… _

_...I already know yours, dork… _

You breathe in a stuttered breath when you sense the other presence. It’s not Sans -- you would recognise his magic. It’s not Undyne, you’ve felt her presence recently enough to feel the difference. And the quiet around you isn’t disturbed, there’s barely even a change in the air, almost like whoever’s nearby is holding their breath and afraid to disturb the flowers just as much as you are.

You keep your eyes forward, despite the tightening of your fingers on your backpack straps.

_...can you at least tell me what’s so stupid about it, then?... _

_...heheh. Okay… it’s stupid to wish for it, because… _

You turn a corner, and there’s one more echo flower, whispering a phrase over and over again, the reason of the second child. Nestled underneath it, among the tiny golden buttercups that cluster around the base, Flowey is staring up at the glowing blue bloom. Your heartbeat raises a few ticks, and you feel Ellie tense, but…

Your hand raises automatically to press against Ellie’s side, a calming gesture. Flowey isn’t looking at you. You don’t know if he even realizes you’re there.

_...wishing for it would mess up  _ **_your_ ** _ wish… _

You take the opportunity to get an actual, good look at Flowey. He’s curled in on himself, his petals almost  _ drooping _ , and has a somehow tight expression on his pencil-drawn face. There’s a questioning, frustrated twist to his mouth, and you see him mouth the words that the flower is whispering, like he’s trying to decode a riddle written in a cipher.

You step forward again, keeping your eyesight directed past where he’s sitting, and he startles and looks around at you. In your peripheral vision, you see him open his mouth as if to sling a caustic, taunting sneer your way, before he freezes with the expression on his face. He glances between you and the whispering flower, and you chance meeting his gaze directly for a few deliberate seconds.

Then you move your gaze past him again, pursing your lips shut. You’re about as good as begging for a ceasefire, requesting  _ and _ offering to pass without a word. His sneer falls into a grimace, and he glances one more time at the flower before visibly deflating and-- wonder of wonders,  _ nodding toward you _ before burrowing away again.

You let out a faintly relieved breath, and move on, deciding that you don’t have the mental energy to wonder what the hell that just was.


	27. Quiet Voices In The Rain

The walk through the cavern that seems mostly flooded with water is… mildly uncomfortable. You don't really want to cast blame anywhere (and you  _ certainly _ don't want to imply that Onionsan is bad company, but they're definitely not the company you need or want at the moment); you still definitely don't hesitate to mention that you're in a bit of a hurry and beat a hasty retreat. Ellie,  _ bless _ , takes your side and politely insists that you both have to leave.

You don't even need to  _ say _ anything once you both leave the room -- the mutual way that you both relax into a bit of a slump is understanding enough.

“Today, man.” She murmurs in drained amusement. 

“Right?” you ask rhetorically back, a tired, almost hysterical giggle bubbling up from your throat.

“I'm going to enjoy passing out tonight.” She announces quietly as you continue down the marshy paths. 

“Welcome to my life.” You murmur in response. “How much farther?” Farther? Further? You can never remember the difference between those. Maybe it doesn't matter in the long run.

It strikes you, almost inanely, that your last major thought process before this entire crazy adventure started was wondering about the difference between stalagmites and stalactites. You've really got a bad habit of getting tripped up on specifics that don't matter in the long run, it seems. 

“We're about halfway. Not quite, though. We'll be halfway at the statue.” Ellie nuzzles at your cheek, giving a soft, meaningless trill. “Promise me we'll at least get a lift  _ back _ with Sans?”

You make a soft, slightly rude noise, looking at her with furrowed brows. “Of  _ course _ . I’m a prideful idiot but I’m not  _ that _ stupid.”

She lets out a small giggly sound, nuzzling against your cheek, “Wasn’t sure. Can you blame me?” You give your own small giggle and smile as you lean your cheek against her. The comfortable banter you can relax into with her and Sidney still surprises you sometimes, but it nonetheless comes as easily as breathing now. Up on the surface you had always felt at least a little leery about talking to anyone in even a vaguely negative sense. It's… awfully nice to be able to trade well meaning, teasing barbs as easily as polite compliments and small talk.

Likewise, it's oddly comforting how easily the two of you can fall into a silence when nothing more needs to be said. She gives a soft little chirping trill as she bundles down into the curve of your shoulder, and you take comfort in the fact of her presence, and the simple reminder that you are not experiencing the world alone. 

You hum a soft, simple melody under your breath as you walk, your hands pressed into your pockets, and Ellie waits for a few measures before joining in on your ad-libbed tune, alternating between harmonizing and offering a counterpoint. You feel a smile form on your lips, the quiet moments of cooperation and song reaffirming your friendship with her.

"I know a place where the rainfall's sweet," you sing softly, pulling your hands out and 'conducting' yourself while you sing.

"I know a place where it's nice to walk," Ellie sings, four counts after you, making it a singing round.

"Where the river's cold, and you can soak your feet," you continue, grinning at her.

"Where the grass grows blue and the flowers talk." She chimes back at you, fluffing up her feathers and adding a variation trill.

"Where the air smells fresh, where the song’s complete~" you throw your voice up into the soprano range, even though you're a low mezzo to high alto, and both of you giggle as your voice cracks a little bit.

"Where the flowers echo all the notes you tweet~" Ellie chirps, laughing at you when you make a face.

"And you can sing along with all the folks you meet!" You both nonetheless come together on the last line, miraculously agreeing on the words before both of you fall into quieter giggles again.

"... yes, it's nice to sing, here in Waterfall..." a more timid voice rises up to mimic the tune you had both been toying around with. You startle a bit, before a small grin forms on your face as you realize that you've garnered a more shy friend. You had almost managed to completely overlook the monster sitting in the corner of the room, hunched into as small of a curl that she can manage. She has turned her head toward you and is peering through a curtain of seaweed-looking hair, her eyes wide and tentative when you make eye contact with her. 

"Where the sounds all echo like a concert hall," you sing back at her, smiling in encouragement, adding a few extra notes to your simple melody. You walk into a spot that's a comfortable distance from the monster, before leaning against the wall with a gentle wave in her direction.

"Oh, I..." she hunches down a bit further, shaking her head and going a dark, shifting green-blue color in obvious embarrassment. "I don't... know the words."

"Neither do we." you gently joke back, shrugging. "It was just for fun."

"But it... sounded like you were..." she tilts her head, a slight frown twisting her mouth -- she's got very sharp teeth, you notice, but a very lovely voice. It's obvious she sings, and well, and it would be obvious even if you hadn't just heard her sing a quiet line. "...singing a real song...?"

"Nope." You flash a grin toward her, "We were just doing what you did. Making up words to a rhythm and tune." You shrug again, "So... yeah. You're welcome to join us if you want. We're not picky."

"Or good at singing." Ellie chirps cheerfully.

"If you want we can even change the melody, too." you add, "It's just whatever we feel like."

The monster blinks up at you, slowly, again, before nodding hesitantly and quietly humming the start of a different melody, something bouncy and repetitive and vaguely jazzy -- you hum the fifth below it once you pick out the melody that the monster has chosen, and Ellie once again picks up a beautiful counterpoint melody out of seemingly nowhere. 

You think it must have something to do with her being a bird, and the other monster having a very beautiful voice, but you find yourself readily easing back and letting the two of them steal the show. The two of them achieve a beautiful harmony together and you’re entirely okay with pretending to conduct the two of them, smiling as they grow a bit more adventurous -- Ellie starts singing small refrains at the monster, and the monster starts singing back, and it’s all so  _ nice… _

You’re not sure when you realize that your soul is pulsing in time with the monster’s music, but you do notice when it pulls free from your chest, inching ever so slowly toward her. Your focus is broken, and you look down at it in surprise. There are faint music-note shaped wisps of magic floating around it, and more of them drifting through the air around you. You realize, kind of distantly, that you feel an odd and comforting  _ want _ for how those notes make you feel, you  _ want _ to follow the music, your soul  _ wants _ to go to the monster.

A monster that lures in prey by singing. You remember reading old stories, Greek myths and little games of pirates when you were younger -- Sirens had been a featured part of them.

You stop conducting, glancing around at the room around you, and notice other monsters drifting in with vague smiles on their faces, clapping along with the tune. Ellie’s eyes are glazed over, and she’s still singing back, but the most important aspect you notice is the other monster’s expression. It’s blissful. It’s not calculated, it's not purposeful, it's full of genuine happiness at singing, and you think she doesn't even realize what she's doing.

You take a deep breath and will your unnecessary bout of panic at the perceived danger down, focusing on the softly burning light of your soul and trying to mentally encourage it to come back into your chest. It stalls in its slow advance toward the siren, flickering uncertainly, before the faintly glowing music notes around it slip away, and you're able to pull it back. 

You only manage a full breath once it's back to you.

With your soul safely ensconced in your chest once more, you're able to think a little more clearly. You lift a hand to gently press against Ellie’s side when she's not singing her part, and she startles a bit, her eyes clearing immediately. The other monster continues singing, quietly blissful and undeniably beautiful for it. You meet Ellie’s gaze and carefully walk toward the other end of the room, weaving through the small crowd. With an effort, you manage to slip out of the exit and get somewhere that the music isn’t as prominent. 

“Gosh.” Ellie mumbles after an extended few moments of silent walking. “I'm none for two today. I fly away when Undyne's attacking you and then I get caught up by Shyren’s magic!” the faint humorous sound in her voice nonetheless doesn't hide the negative note you can hear underneath it. “That's… sad, really.”

“I almost got caught up in it too, so…” you trail off.

“Yeah, but if you're being stupid brave then that's on you. I'm supposed to be the sensible one protecting you, remember?”

“I thought I was the sensible one?” you smile weakly at her.

“Nope, we've established this, you're the stupid brave prideful idiot hero and I'm the woeful put-upon but reliable sidekick who's supposed to save you when you get in over your head.”

You can't help the chortle that bubbles up from your gut. “Okay, now I know you're making fun of me. I'm no hero.”

She bumps her head against your cheek, the feathery fluff on the top of her head tickling against your skin. “I am making fun, but you should have a bit more belief in what you can do. Heroes happen because good people do good things. I know the kids in Snowdin view you as a sort of hero.”

“What, because I bribe them with sweets?”

She swats your cheek with a wing. “Because you know them and what they like to do? Because you talk to them like you talk to adults instead of talking down to them? Because you know their likes and you keep track of their personal drama, and you're always willing to talk things through with them? They know you, and trust you, and they look up to you.” She fluffs up primly, looking the epitome of peeved. “I'm serious about this, you know? You're… you're doing  _ fine _ .” The last bit goes a bit pitchy and emotional, and you automatically lift a hand to gently smooth your fingertips through her feathers.

“Okay.” You acquiesce. “You're the reliable sidekick who's supposed to save me from myself, after all, I guess I have no choice but to accept that you're right.” You hadn't had the energy to make it into a joke, so it came out far more irredeemably  _ sincere  _ than you intended. Eeeugh, today is making you a clingy needy basketcase.

“Ewww,” Ellie agrees with you, apparently, making exaggerated gagging noises, though her eyes are just a bit shiny and her voice is still a bit trembly. “You're breaking the code of best friend conduct, no mushy gushy sentimentality, sincerity is always to be masked by ironic bickering and banter. I might actually have to consult Sidney on your breach of conduct.”

You offer one tired attempt at a smile, but it falls spectacularly fast and you can't call up the energy to answer. She fluffs her feathers once, seeming to rethink whatever follow-up comment she was going to make, and instead gives the soft musical warble that counts as a sigh for her, floofing up her feathers and making a point of getting comfy on your shoulder again.

“...I still don't know how to even deal with the fact I have multiple friends, sometimes.” You admit into the quiet ambience around you in Waterfall. She leans her head against your cheek, tolerating your continued trek into Questionable Conversation. “I know it's supposed to be this whole normal thing but…” you laugh a bit, humorlessly and more breath than sound, “I keep feeling like I'm gonna fuck it all up. Or like I already am. Or like, even if I don't  _ actively  _ fuck it all up, then eventually people are gonna just see what a disappointment I am and… and I'll get left behind, if I don't leave first.”

She lets out a soft clicking noise to cut you off. “You're not a disappointment. You don't gotta be anything or anyone for anybody but yourself. You are more than enough exactly the way you are.” She preens a bit of your hair behind your ear again. “Anxiety and insecurities and all. We'll be here no matter what, you know?”

Considering that you're both uncomfortably far into Sincerityville, it shouldn't be surprising the way her voice goes soft and meaningful, but you still go a bit pink in the face anyway. “I… I  _ know. _ Still working on believing, though…?” You twitch the side of your mouth like an attempted grin. “Sorry. I'm not… good at this.”

“Bleh.” She makes a small faux-disgusted sound, “You're  _ good _ at turning people into  _ saps _ , is what you're good at. I'll need to do at least four freefall dives to stop being this uncharacteristically sentimental. I hope you're happy.”

You're both very quiet for several more steps through the quiet, damp, dimly lit caverns with only the sound of water dripping around you to break the silence. It's not an uncomfortable silence, but rather the kind of silence that descends when people are contemplating a big idea to digest. When you speak up again, quiet and tentatively breaking the shared fugue, it's with a note of genuine confusion, amusement, and surprise in your voice. 

“...You know? I think I actually might be.”

“Bluuuuuh. Nope, that's it, I'm out, wake me up when we're home.” She flares her crest feathers in mock aggravation and hops over into your hood, pretending to grumpily settle herself and tuck her head under a wing. “You're killing me with all this mawk.”

You manage a quirk of your lips. “Mawk. I hope you mean the shortened term for mawkishness, like opening up a can of worms, because I’m pretty sure ‘mawk’ alone just means ‘maggots’.” 

Ellie’s faux disdainful silence is your only answer.

* * *

There’s signs in this hallway too. You’re immediately terrified of what they contain.

You prove yourself correct when, upon reading the first one, the cold and rancid feeling of concentrated dread and despair settles in your gut again. The last three plaques are still etched into the forefront of your mind, not surprisingly led by the pure, nausea inducing, instinctual terror prompting image that had been etched on the last one, though you’re almost certain your mind  _ has  _ to be embellishing the worst aspects. (You have to believe that it is, even though you’re proud of your damn-near photographic memory.) 

_ The power to take their SOULs. This is the power that the humans feared. This power has no counter. Indeed, a human cannot take a monster’s SOUL. When a monster dies, its SOUL disappears. And an incredible power would be needed to take the SOUL of a living monster. _

You press a hand over the center of your chest, feeling the soft and now familiar pulse of your soul keeping time with your heartbeat. The horrible part is that you can understand both sides of the argument. You can understand why the monsters would blame the humans, especially if, as was said, the humans attacked first. But you can also understand why that kind of power would be terrifying to the humans, you've experienced the kind of bone-deep understanding that  _ this is now a constant vulnerability. _ You also know that a truly terrible part of human nature is the capability to  _ other _ people. And when an _ other _ is capable of harming you, especially in a way that you can't recreate, sometimes it doesn't matter that they never have or never would.

The best defense is the prompter offense.

You drag your feet to the next plaque, keeping your hand pressed over your soul for strength and some semblance of the bravery you were supposed to have in excess, the bravery you only sometimes actually felt. There's a nausea in your gut that's whispering to you that  _ the monsters are retaliating, and justly so. _ How can you ask them to hold off for another generation? How can you place one life above many, even if it is your own?

You can understand this. You can see both sides of the argument. You just know that you're not willing to give your life up yet, and that means they have no right to  _ take _ it by force. 

_ There is only one exception. The SOUL of a special species of monster called a “Boss Monster.” A Boss Monster’s SOUL is strong enough to persist after death... If only for a few moments. A human could absorb this SOUL. But this has never happened. And now it never will. _

Despair is potent. You only need a little bit to feel like the world is ending around you. But this… this feeling in your soul is immense, and it is everything, and it is  _ despair _ . 

In part:  _ boss monsters. Boss Monsters. End of level bosses. Papyrus was the end of Snowdin level. Undyne is doubtlessly the end of Waterfall boss. _

In part:  _ my life is an obstacle to their happiness. In their eyes I would be better off dead. _

Most damnably, in part:  _ I could leave. There's a way for me to get out. I could condemn all of the monsters to further entrapment and save myself. I could be that selfish. It could only take one life. _

_ I could choose humanity over them. I could choose my people. _

And, the most painful, in part:  _ I just want to go  _ **_home_ ** _.  _

But it's no sooner than you have formed this thought that a bittersweet stab of agonizing guilt forms in your gut, because you know where home is. Home is where your people are.

And… Sans and Papyrus are your people. 

You tear your eyes away and mechanically keep walking, because by now, you know you can never go back. The only option is to keep pressing forward.

Your life on the surface is officially over.


	28. Memories

You feel oddly raw as you continue down the hallway, like you’ve been transported from the center of a warm and protected house out into the middle of a cold, cold night, or like someone has peeled a layer of skin clean off of every inch of your body. But strangely, the feeling is a soothing one. Like ripping off a bandaid. Like waxing the hair from your legs. It hurts like hell, and the skin feels sensitive to the touch, but there’s an uncanny sense of satisfaction that comes with the hurt, with the vulnerability.

You are raw. You are exposed. You are vulnerable.

But you are strangely okay.

It’s in this odd state of affairs that you come to a stop in front of a large statue carved out of stone in a small alcove in the hallway, with raindrops falling in a loose rhythm against the battered, porous limestone. You feel Ellie fluff up her feathers in your hood when you kneel in front of it, and then hop back out onto your shoulder again, fluttering her wings and displacing the air near your cheek until she’s settled.

“A memorial statue?” you muse tiredly, raising a hand to gently trace your fingers against the wet stone. Despite what has to be years of wear and tear, the details are still lovingly kept distinct, and the gentle lines in the eyes seem to dance with mirth and kindness and a wistful sort of knowing. It looks like a child -- like a young goat child. Like Toriel.

Your heart hurts, because you don’t need to ask for confirmation. You know she’s lost children before, and this one… the statue is so lifelike, you can almost hear a mischievous bleating laugh, so like hers, so familiar and yet so eerily unknowable.

Ellie trills softly in affirmation of your spoken and unspoken questions, ducking her head a little bit in respect and palpable grief. “Prince Asriel.” she murmurs, in the tone of voice you’ve encountered up above from people talking about a loved one lost to the sick machinations of fate. “Dusted before his time, may he sleep in starlight.” she intones the words like a prayer, like a priest committing a body to the earth at a funeral.

You duck your head a bit as well, offering respect and your own soft, borrowed sense of mourning. You did not know this child. You have no right to intrude in this, this monster-centric thing of grief, but death touches all people. You may not have personally had any connection to this one, but you can still do this. You can still mourn a life cut short too soon.

You sit there with her for a few moments, both of you listening to the sound of the rain against the stone and breathing in the misty air around you, but eventually you know you have to get up again. You rest your fingers once more against the damp cheek of the statue, brushing a raindrop away from the eye like a tear, before turning and continuing onward.

“Asriel’s memorial is in the very center of the underground,” Ellie explains softly as you both continue onward down the hallway. “The exact halfway point between the castle in New Home and the Ruins, the old castle.” she pauses when she sees the look on your face. “Do you… even want to know this?”

“I do.” you murmur wistfully, but you know that the emotional exhaustion is clear in your voice. “I want to know, so I can understand. But…”

But there’s still that voice that whispers  _ this is pain this is someone else’s pain and you can do nothing about it you can’t do anything just run away so it can’t hurt you too. _

And it’s echoing over top of the voice that is growing too loud to ignore:  _ too much too much too much too much too much too much... _

“...but it’s… a lot, today.” you gesture vaguely, tiredly frustrated and knowing that it isn’t enough of an explanation. 

“Are you sure we can’t call Sans for help?” Ellie asks, not bothering to hide her concern anymore.

“At this point I’m determined to do this out of  _ spite  _ if nothing else,” you mutter vitriolically, shaking your head. You know you’re getting into a dangerous place with your anxiety right now, because the trembling is slowing down. The voice is so loud, but your body is seemingly calming. It’s a major warning sign for you, like the calm before a tsunami. But still, your irrational ass is stubborn and at this point, the world is telling you  _ no you can’t. _ You’ve never been good with someone telling you that you can’t.

You decide you'll be exponentially more worried when the trembling fully stops. 

Still, 

Oh, forgive your too-damned-selfless soul, still,

Still, when you reach the next room, your heart is kind. You see the basket full of umbrellas, and the sign next to it that insists you take one, and you pause before it before tugging two umbrellas free of the basket. Ellie gives a softly inquisitive sound when she sees this, but quiets once you’ve turned back again, both umbrellas hooked over your elbow and holding onto your backpack straps, a girl on a mission.

You stride back down the hallway until you reach the statue again, kneeling down on the stone before it and popping one of the umbrellas open. It’s a faded rose color, patchy at the edges but more than serviceable, and it’s big enough.

You carefully tuck the handle of the umbrella into one of the divots in the statue’s folded arms, hooking it and leaning it up until the stone itself holds it in place. The pitter-patter of the rain hitting the umbrella is immediately the loudest sound you can hear, but there’s a faint whirring noise underneath it, like delicate machinery starting up again.

Softly at first, and then growing louder, a music box begins to play from within the statue. It’s a gentle repeating tune, almost whimsical, but wistful in a sense that carries bittersweet happiness on its sound. It sounds like a lullaby, and like encouragement, and like… like raindrops.

Its beat matches the raindrops falling on the top of the umbrella, note for note. The tune never changes, the notes stay constant, the raindrops keep falling in time.

The stone eyes are kind, and mischievous, and melancholy.

Your own eyes burn. Something about this,  _ everything _ about this, the statue, the song, the controlled rain… it’s a perfect memorial. A place to grieve, a place to remember, a place to be sad… a place to be kind.

You lift a hand to brush your fingers one more time against the statue, this time lower, at the center of the chest, the same place that you would place your own hand closest to your soul, and the stone under your fingers glows a soft, warm, healthy green.

You rest your fingers there for a few seconds, before pulling back and pushing to your feet again. You could say something, you think, something soft and potent like Ellie had, like a prayer to a lost soul, but you don’t think that anything you say will be good enough. So instead of ruining the moment with a fumbled thought, you let your actions speak for themselves.

You open the second umbrella, tipping it up and over your head so that you and Ellie are protected from the rain, if not from the ambient mists, and walk onward.

* * *

You had only ever been to one funeral.

You counted your blessings that it hadn’t been anyone in your family, but the grief is still fresh in your mind, even though it’s been almost a decade since. You had been 15. It was your sophomore year of high school, and you had exactly one friend going into things, one friend who held you in the bathroom through grade school and middle school and the year before, before project presentations and public speaking exercises, whenever your breathing would falter and your face and eyes would burn and you would tremble like you were shaking out of your skin. You had been so afraid of making new friends, so afraid that they would leave you behind. It had taken so long to trust that Dawn wouldn’t.

You had been so afraid to try for anyone new.

You’d been so afraid to give any of yourself away that you hadn’t realized you’d done it until it was too late to take it back.

You’d joined the choir class, because music helped you in the hardest times, and because your fingers never cooperated with your ( _ broken _ ) brain in the long run, so instruments were out. You’d found girls like you, who sang under their breath at their lockers and who traded MP3s like a currency (you and your trove of pirated top 40 hits over the years were a very popular trades-master indeed), girls who pooled their money to buy a full pizza and shared it in the choir room during the lunch hours (you got at least three of them hooked on pineapple-ham), girls who lamented loudly and without remorse over their monthly cycles (you always carried tampons and pads). You felt, miraculously, like you  _ fit.  _

You’d met Michele. Chelly, everyone called her. She had been the center soprano to your center alto -- a silver-voiced and impossibly pretty siren who had been your first crush, and she sat next to you at lunchtimes when you all gathered around the pizza. She complimented your bookbag and the large, absurdly colorful buttons you’d covered it with. She had a tattoo of a music note in the shape of a heart on her ankle. She kept the best stories and the most mysterious smile. She stood next to you during performances.

Standing in a crowd up on a stage eased the edge off, and when your hands would shake, you could reach over and find a hand that was also shaking, and you could both hold on, and your voices would be strong despite the nerves.

And then, in late February, when the air was just starting to warm up again out of sweatshirt weather and all of the girls around you were shedding their winter skins and becoming beautiful again, the news came. Michele and her elder brother Adam, who had been visiting for the weekend, had gotten into a car crash. The air bag deployed in time to save Adam. Michele had not survived.

You couldn’t remember much of what happened after you heard the news. You lost  _ hours _ that day, sitting silently in the choir room, tears streaking down your cheeks. No one had the heart to move you, even when the next class period started, and the next after that. It hadn’t been until Dawn settled down beside you and pressed her shoulder against yours and pulled your face into her hair, well after the last bell had rung for the day, and let you cry and cry and cry until your eyes couldn’t produce any more tears, that you finally came back.

The funeral had been a somber event. Closed casket. You had been old enough to realize what that implied.

You remember the people around you murmuring soft eulogies, remember sitting there in a corner and feeling like an imposter, like your invitation was a mistake, terrified that someone would realize you weren’t supposed to be there. You’d been nothing to her. You’d barely been a friend. You’d just been a girl who pooled for pizza and traded MP3s and gave her an absurdly colorful button off of your bag, and who clung to her hand during performances so you’d both stay sane.

A tiny voice in your mind whispered the worst lie you ever told yourself and could never quite disbelieve.  _ She would have been better off not knowing you. She would have been better with another friend, someone who would stand and say something, anything, someone who could memorialize her the way she deserved. _

The days passed like a haze. You weren’t sleeping. You wouldn’t talk to anyone. Dawn would spend her afternoons at your house, her back pressed against yours as she did her homework, and you’d just shake and shake and shake. The voice in your head that whispered horrible things only got louder with every day.

At first, you’d thought you were getting better when the shaking started to die away. For long stretches of time, you’d be still. The exhaustion would always feel more intense those moments.

The day you first fell asleep had been at lunch, curled up under an out of the way stairwell, and your parents had called the police, thinking you’d been kidnapped.

_ You’re a terrible daughter, to make them worry _ , the voice had hummed.

The second time it happened had been in the middle of class. One moment you’d been fine, paying attention, taking notes. The next thing you knew you were waking up in the nurse’s office with a bag of ice pressed to a heavily bandaged spot on your head. You’d keeled over sideways out of your chair and managed to slice open your forehead on the adjacent desk.

_ Useless, you can’t do anything right. _ The voice crooned like a mother.

(You still had that scar, trailing long and grotesquely along your hairline, usually hidden under your bangs.)

A month after the funeral in late April, your parents had formally pulled you out of school. You wouldn’t return until the next year.

_ A burden _ , the voice had danced,  _ a nuisance. A problem. A failure. Afraid. _

_ So afraid. _

Honestly, if it hadn't been for Dawn, you weren't sure you would have come back from it all. Going to the therapist had made you feel worse. It had taken Dawn’s steadfast presence on the worst of days, and her no-nonsense pestering you to talk on the best ones, that had finally helped you claw your way back into the light. That was the thing you loved about her. She was all over the place, lively and vivacious, but whenever you drifted away, she stayed.

Whenever you hopped cities you would send her pictures of the latest Shitty Apartment™ and she would send you pictures of the same four rooms of her own apartment. Whenever you drifted away, Dawn stayed. She was your anchor.

(You do wonder how she took the news of your disappearance. You like to think she's probably one of the most vocal protesters to the idea of you being stuck somewhere. You also like to think that she probably hasn't stopped sending you dorky texts, despite not having gotten an answer in a few weeks.

You’ll miss her wedding. You'll miss being her kid's god-mama. You'll miss having her be your best maid at your own wedding. If you… live long enough to have one.)

You miss her. 

It’s probably the lack of her dorky meme text messages that you’re the most aware of, whenever you pull out your phone. You can almost imagine her reaction to Sans -- they would be almost instant besties. A singularity of dumb jokes and memes. You would give anything to see that.

* * *

 

The quiet pitter patter of rain against the top of the umbrella keeps time with your heartbeat, both you and Ellie tiredly keeping your eyes forward. She's bundled down into a condensed little ball of feathers. Her body heat is still soothing to you.

“That was a nice thing you did.” She mumbles after a few quiet moments. “I didn't know there was a music box under the statue. And…” she trails off. You know she’s trying to think of a tactful way of asking about the green glowy magic, even though you think she suspects the fact that you know nothing about it. You hadn’t done anything special. You’d just… acted on instinct.

You don’t answer verbally, leaning your cheek over against her instead, and letting out the softest possible sigh. She gives a tiny ‘oh’ sound in understanding anyway and falls quiet again.

For a few moments, you imagine what would happen if Dawn and Ellie were to meet. Your best friends in both worlds. Would they get along? Would they detest each other at first?

Was one of them your  _ best  _ best friend, and if so… which one? Dawn had seniority and years of practice and years of proof that she was always there for you in her own way. She didn't always get you, she didn't always have the way to really make you feel better, but she was always willing to try. 

But Ellie… Ellie  _ understood _ you. Ellie seemed to always know when you just needed to have her pressed against your cheek. She groaned at all of your worst jokes but never told you to stop making them. She sang your silly songs with you and seemed to know what you were thinking sometimes. It had to be fair to say that you and Dawn had practice, but you and Ellie had chemistry, and at that point…

Maybe it doesn't matter. You can have multiple best friends, right? You already count Ellie and Sidney in that group. You think, in the long run, that all of your best friends would get along together, even if there was some contention at first.

Well. 

You bite your lip, shaking the thoughts away. 

It's not likely that they'll meet in your lifetime anyway.


	29. You Have A Sincere Problem With Admitting Defeat

You sort of wish you could shake off the feeling of homesickness, especially because you know it’s for the surface, and not actually for _home_. You know what and where home is now, you know that you'll find happiness in it, you aren't rethinking it or regretting it, it's just…

Different. It's hard to accept emotionally what you've already rationally come to terms with.

(You… _have_ come to terms with it rationally, haven't you?)

(Yes. Yes of course. You know that you want this. The certainty of your choice is soothing if nothing else.)

You’re still pushing off the excess of emotions when you sight Kid leaning against a wall again, his face flushed with excitement and an impressive bruise forming over one eye. You remember him mentioning something about Undyne touching him, and how he wasn’t going to wash his face again, and you feel a sudden flare of irrational, halfway hysterical laughter bubble up your throat. She must have grabbed him by the face, and he had been _excited_ by that.

His face lights up when he sees you, eyes widening and a grin baring his little, extremely sharp teeth. “Yo! Miss! You caught up!” he bounces off of the wall and over to you, beaming.

You open your mouth, about to start in on a lecture, to grab him by the ear and drag him all the way back to Snowdin so that you can make this trip without having to worry about him tripping into the water somewhere and drowning, but the words won’t rise from your throat. You’re already halfway through Waterfall, according to Ellie, and it’s already mid afternoon, and you know that if you take him back, you’ll… you’ll have to take that help from Sans. And -- oh, damn it all, it’s idiotic. It feels like giving up.

“...you’re going back to Snowdin.” you say, instead, pulling out your phone. You can at least have Sans’ help in this way. “And you’re going _right back_ to your mom, and I’m sure she’ll be _very interested_ to hear why you snuck off.”

His grin falls away into a look of pure, guilty terror, eyes wide like a kid who’s just broken an expensive vase. “But-- But… Miss!” he squeaks, pouting, “Please, I--” you’re scrolling through your contacts again -- you really should just set Sans on speed-dial -- “Can I at least--”

“Kid, you’re _grounded_ right now. And you trip more often than you don’t.” You mutter wearily, “I don’t want to turn around for five seconds and see that you’ve tripped into a river or off a ledge or something. And I’ll be worrying about it for as long as you’re running around here, okay?”

“Then-- Then I can go with you!” he begs, bending toward you with a pleading expression. “Come on, just for a little bit? I-- Mom’s not gonna let me leave the _house_ when she finds out, I’ll be grounded for _forever_ , can I at least see Undyne one more time before I go back? Like, just this one small adventure, _please._ ”

Your finger freezes over the ‘call’ button. A stab of empathetic _hurt_ passes through your soul, this is a base betrayal to him, you--

You--

 _God._ **_Fucking_ ** _damnit._

You lower your phone.

“You’re not leaving my sight until I hand you off to go home,” You say, bluntly, a note of exhaustion creeping into your voice. “And you’re to do _exactly as I say_ until that moment. No questions. No hesitation. I tell you to run, you run. I tell you to stay exactly where you are, you stop _right in that exact spot_ and you _don’t move_.” You lean down, over him a little. “No matter what it is, if I say it? You do it. Are we _clear_?”

He blinks up at you, wide eyed, before his beaming smile comes back, and he looks so joyful that it hurts. He’s bobbing his head up and down so fast you see him sway on his footing. “Yes! Yes of course! Whatever you say, Miss! I promise!”

You sigh, leaning your cheek over against Ellie, who lets out a quiet sound of her own exhaustion. “Let’s go then.” She warbles, sounding just about as _done_ with this day as you are.

You start walking again, with Kid taking two steps for every one of your long strides to stay right beside you under the umbrella. It doesn’t take him long to start babbling quietly as you walk, talking about a school project he and his classmates did once where the King came to visit their school, and they had to take care of flowers to learn about responsibility. You bite off your vitriolic reply that when _you_ were learning about responsibility, you had gone and volunteered to wash dogs at a shelter for a month, and if you missed a day without letting the shelter folks know, then you had to start over. 

When the hallway opens up around you into the biggest cavern you’ve entered yet, you see the second half of the underground spread out before you in all of its glory. You can see a massive castle in the distance, across a vast lake of magma, next to a tower of machinery and upon a large platform of rock, jutting out from the wall of the cavern itself. You can see layers of rock fashioned into a city around the castle, pathways connected by tubes that must contain elevators, buildings carved into the rocky walls.You can see the places where the mountain has broken away, and twisted, red-gold light pulses with an unnatural aura.

Sunlight. Sunlight through the Barrier.

You can’t see as clearly as you’d like, but there’s a bitter, acidic knowledge in your Soul that there’s probably tiny golden flowers clinging to the stone wherever they can push through.

There’s a part of you, despite the splendorous sight before you, that simply _cannot_ enjoy this. Any other day, any other circumstance, and you’d probably be delighted at such a panoramic view.

You tug Kid along, not even pausing to take it in. By the time you reach a ledge upward, you don’t even hesitate to bend down and scoop him up around the waist, heaving him up on top of it.

You barely take the time to put the umbrella away before climbing up yourself.

The bridges return, but these are built in layers over yet another massive drop off in the caverns, winding their way downward toward the bottom, and you tug Kid closer to your side as you step onto them. You’re only a few feet out when the crackle of magic forms around you. You stop dead in your tracks, and the floor of the bridge a few feet in front of you glows and crackles with electricity.

A glowing cyan colored spear juts up from below, leaving a scorch mark on the wood.

Your hand tightens around Kid’s sweater, before going entirely slack. “Stay here, Kid.” you order quietly, an unnatural calmness in your voice. “Ellie. Get Sans.”

You’re already moving, even as Ellie chirps an affirmative and leaps from your shoulder, even as more spears start to form up through the bridge. You don’t wait for it to get worse.

“But--” you hear Kid behind you, confusion in his voice, “...But why is she… attacking…? She’d only ever actually attack--”

You’re down a layer, and his voice is immediately muffled by distance. She must be ahead of you by a layer, throwing spears upward. If you can catch up to her, if you can get _past_ her, then she won’t have that advantage of terrain.

You sidestep several spears as you run, listening for the crackling noise and your eyes on the wood beneath your feet, looking for the tell-tale cyan glow before the spear juts up. There are several moments when you have to stop again, to let spears jut up in front of you, but your focus is absolute in this moment. You’re _so done_ with this.

Your fingers hurt from how tightly your fists are clenched. You’re going to go right up to her and _damn the consequences._

But you never get the chance. You don’t even realize the spears are herding you on a path until you’re already at the end of it. The levels have started branching off into larger platforms, with pathways leading off of them. You’re about three levels up from the bottom (at least a thirty foot drop into rushing water) when you have to stop before you’re pushed off of an edge.

The sound of armor-clad footsteps advances, up a level, and then behind you. You turn in place, to see Undyne standing tall and intimidating, a spear in her hand, her helmet staring you down blankly.

Your mouth twists into a grimace and you lift your arms outward in challenge, baring your chest, _daring_ her to attack you face on, because _you_ are so goddamn _irritated_.

“Guess this can’t wait, huh?” you ask, rhetorically, bitterly. Another death to fuck with your psyche, another _fuck you, you’re in a video game_ moment. You wonder how far back you’ll go. You wonder if you’ll go back at all. “Go on then. Kill me in cold blood and let’s get this over with.”

She raises the spear.

For a second, she doesn’t move, and you almost think she’s hesitating. Like she won’t attack you directly, like she’s almost impressed by your show of aggravated fearlessness. But then she swings the spear downward with force, and the tip of it drags through the wood of the bridge in front of her, and it splinters.

The portion that you’re on shudders, and then it all gives way, and you’re falling again.

You don’t even have the time to shriek before pain explodes through your system, and the world goes black.

* * *

 

_Hi again._

You find yourself in that shadowy, cottony darkness again, familiarity tugging at your senses. Your soul is hovering near the surface of your chest, casting an orange glow around you for a few feet. You turn in place, and see the human kid-- Frisk, their name is Frisk -- you see Frisk sitting a few feet away, their arms wrapped around one of their knees. This close, you can see the faint outline of a pale rosy glow around their chest. It’s nowhere near as bright as yours, or that other child’s glow had been.

It’s been awhile since you last had one of these dreams, but you remember Frisk looking up at you with exhaustion plain on their features. Now… now it looks like they’ve had a chance to sleep some, and to get a proper meal in them. Their cheeks are less sallow, their caramel color more rich, less jaundiced.

 _Hi_ . You reply, stepping over toward them and sitting as well, sighing tiredly. _Been a while._

 _Mhm._ They nod. _You haven’t needed to come here._ They aren’t signing, aren’t speaking, but you can still hear them as clear as day.

 _And what makes me need to come here?_ You ask, deciding to humor this.

 _Three circumstances. When we pull you, which we didn’t. When it’s necessary, if you die… or, most often, when you leave consciousness with thoughts of the surface in your Soul._ Frisk shrugs. _It gives us the chance to offer you the way out again. Only happens when you might want it. You were thinking of it earlier, right?_

You can’t argue with that; you’re quiet for a few seconds, before nodding. _So, of the latter two options, is this the former or the latter?_ You almost manage to make the question jocular.

 _The latter._ Frisk offers one tired smile up at you. _You’re still alive, just unconscious. You’ll wake up soon. Whether it’s in pain in a pile of trash in Waterfall or comfortably in your own bed a few weeks ago is up to you, miss._

Another few moments of tense silence. _You know what I’m going to answer,_ you finally grumble, looking away. _Mama didn’t raise no quitter. No matter the challenge that today has been. I started this, I’m damn well going to keep going until I_ **_physically_ ** _cannot._

The glow from your soul flickers brighter for a few seconds, a little more orange, a little more red. Frisk lets out a soft, humorless laugh.

 _And they think you haven’t earned your determination._ They muse, leaning over until their shoulder hits your arm. You automatically raise it and wrap it around their shoulders, soaking in the emptiness around you both.

 _They?_ You ask, not really expecting an answer.

 _My friend. The kinda mean one_. There’s a note of tired fondness in their voice even as they mumble the gentle insult. You squeeze around their shoulders.

_Where are they, by the way?_

_I asked to do this myself._ Frisk answers, leaning their head over against your shoulder. _I wanted to talk to you._ They hesitate, before looking up toward you. _I… wanted to ask why you did what you did, this time._ You feel a pang of ache in your heart, at the confirmation that you never did this before, the sneaking suspicion and guilt in your soul spiking.

 _I felt like I knew you._ You start, _I felt like I recognized you. And… I felt like something terrible was going to happen. I was worried for you. I…_ you duck your head. _I guess… I felt like I knew, like I couldn’t lie to myself and say someone else would do something. Like I knew they wouldn’t. So… it had to be me._ You laugh, weakly, so emotionally exhausted. _Go figure. I single-handedly bore out the bystander effect until I statistically had to do something._

You’re quiet for another few moments, until you finally break the silence. _How are things on the surface?_

 _Things’re fine._ Frisk pulls their other leg up and tightens their arms around their legs, pushing their chin into their knees. _They’ve cordoned off the mountain, no one’s allowed in without a police escort. I’ve been staying with one of the officers stationed there, she takes me with her to her station every day. They’re gonna re-enroll me in school when the next semester starts, after Christmas break._ Their ‘voice’ goes quieter. _I’m a ward of the state, now._

Another suspicion borne out. This child had no one.

_They talk, sometimes, while I’m there. I think they forget I exist sometimes. They talk about weird readings under the mountain. About… what was the words… geological-seismo-thermal irregularities. About a big pocket of retro-reflective energy that disrupts electrical signals. They think it’s a magma pocket lined with electrically supercharged crystals, but they can’t get a reading within it._

_The Barrier?_ You ask, rhetorically. Frisk is outside -- out where things are still normal, out where magic is a thing of fiction -- and yet you’re within it all, surrounded by that very thing that cannot, by most systems of scientific thought, exist. And the only thing that separates those two worlds right now is the Barrier.

 _Mhm._ Frisk nods, _Nothing can get out, once it goes in. The signal goes in, tries to map the inside, and then disappears to outside observation because it can’t get back out. That was the point of the Barrier. Enough human magic to keep the monsters in… but it’s fueled by monster magic, so it keeps unfortunate humans from getting out too._

 _You got out._ You point out softly.

 _We cheated._ They mutter, dismissively. _The only way out was to go to a timeline where I didn’t fall in at all._

You’re both very quiet for several seconds, assimilating your thoughts. _Is everyone okay though?_ They ask, very, very timidly.

 _I’m taking care of them,_ you softly reply, _I know they’re important to you._

 _...Thank you, miss._ They mumble, leaning their head forward into their knees. You get the feeling that they have more they want to talk about, but they look up suddenly and their lips purse into a line. _You’re waking up soon._ They announce. _I have to formally ask. Would you like to leave?_

You take a breath, letting it out slowly through your nose. _You have to formally ask, I have to formally decline._

Another few seconds. You watch them visibly war with themself before they blurt out-- _Does Sans hate me?_

You glance over at them from the corner of your eye, taking in the sight of a small child attempting to make themself even smaller. _I can’t answer that._

 _Can’t, or won’t?_ They ask back.

 _Can’t._ You emphasize. _I’m not Sans. That’s not my answer to give._

 _Then… do you_ **_think_ ** _he hates me?_

You put your chin in one hand, thinking for a long moment of Sans and how he has reacted to you thus far, and how most of it all seems to stem back to before you took this small child’s place. You think of his paranoia, and how guarded he’s been, and how he’s been afraid of letting you in. You think about his angry reaction to Flowey killing you and messing with the timeline, and you think of Flowey’s comments. ‘The power’s only released when the soul fully shatters’. ‘The kid always went all the way back. Couldn’t keep ‘em _dead_ , sure, but…’.

You think of a child, trying to reach freedom again, and dying more times than anyone should ever have to.

You think of the tiny speck of sickly grey on your own soul that's been there since you died. You look over in the corner of your eye at the faint aura around their chest. So dim, and almost gone.

How many times had they died and been shunted back to the beginning?

You think of fear, and desperation, and the things you say you’d never do.

You think of Sans, being aware of each time the timeline jumped, even if he couldn’t remember everything clearly.

You think of timelines where things have to have gone badly, from Sans’ perspective.

Would you compromise your morals if you were afraid enough? Would powerlessness drive you to the unthinkable, or bring you to resenting the force you can’t stop?

 _I don’t know._ You tip your head back ‘skyward.’ The answer is as much to them as it is to your own questioning. _I really don’t know._

The light of your soul is growing a little dimmer, and the world around you seems to be getting fuzzy around the edges. Frisk reluctantly pulls away, looking disheartened, and you impulsively reach over to hug them one more time.

Then they melt away from you, or you melt away from them. All that matters is, you’re alone for another few seconds, before you feel yourself waking up.


	30. A Magical Menagerie of Misfortune

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy hell we're already at chapter 30. Can you believe it? I can't. It seems like just yesterday I was panicking over thinking I'd lost two months worth of work, and decided to finally just start posting this so I wouldn't have that kind of freak out again. Feels good man.

The first thing you become aware of is the searing pain in your right knee. It’s not broken, you can still move your foot (with effort), but it’s…

You squint open your eyes and glance down, and sure enough, your leg is twisted. You think you must have popped it on impact.

The second thing you notice is the sniffly little chirps from next to your ear, and the beak carding through your bangs. Ellie is back, and you can hear how close to hysterics she is. You carefully twist your head to look at her, bleary eyed with pain, and swallow roughly.

“How long have I been out?” you rasp.

“at least twenty minutes.”

You startle, because that voice isn’t one you expected, but you think you probably should have. Sans is sitting on your other side, water soaking through his shorts, his hands folded in his lap and a pained expression on his face as he looks at you. “that’s when we got here,” he continues softly, reaching over to take one of your hands and hold onto it. You’re not sure which of you is squeezing tight enough to hurt. Or which one of you is shaking so hard that you can see it in your hands. Maybe it’s both of you.

You feel a surge of panic in your system, but don’t have the energy to express it beyond a weak, pleading question of, “Kid…?”

“He wasn’t there.” Ellie sniffles again, her eyes brimming with tears. “He wasn’t there and the bridges down were a mess of attack marks and-- and one part of it was _shattered_ , and we looked down and--” she hiccups, before pressing her head against your cheek and letting out a weak sob. “You looked like you were _dead_ , you _moron_ , you _absolute ass_.”

You swallow, lifting a hand to press weakly against her side, but your mind is whirling. You’d told him to stay where he was, so that Sans could find him and take him home. You’d _ordered_ him to, so that you could be sure of his safety.

And now you don’t know where he is. And you don’t know if he’s safe.

Your soul blazes within your chest, strong enough that you see a faint glow outside, and you pull your hands away from them both and sit up. Your knee is screaming at you with every slight movement, but you reach down and grasp it, snapping _three_ in your head in lieu of actually counting to it and--

A gritted yelp passes between your teeth and you bite down on your lip hard enough to make it bleed, but the agony in your knee is already dulling down to a throbbing ache. It had popped back into place like a soldier snapping to attention.

“I have to find him.” you mutter furiously, absolutely terrified. There’s a part of you that’s screaming he’s in danger, and you don’t know how you know, but you _know_. Sans and Ellie both look disbelieving, and Sans looks a little sickened by the popping noise your knee just made, but they’re too startled to stop you as you push yourself to your feet.

You’re noticeably limping through the water, your knee almost buckling under each step, but you force yourself to keep standing. Sans snags your arm again, forcing you to stop, and he’s shaking violently.

“how are you even _able_ to _keep going_ right now?” he asks, weakly, his eyes begging you to see reason. You tremble, and ache to lean into him, but your hands curl into fists and you pull your arm free. You turn your head to meet his gaze, your eyes hard.

“I’m human.” you say, softly but with an edge to your voice, “We can take a lot of _damage_ when we need to. Especially to save someone else.”

You’re three faltering steps further when Sans’ arm snakes around your waist and he hooks your good arm over his shoulders, taking the weight off of your leg. He’s still shaking like a leaf but his expression has hardened, the lazy droop to his eyes disappearing into the fiercely protective expression you’d seen on his face only once before, back in Snowdin Woods, when you’d left him behind after invading his privacy. You realize now that he’d been afraid you might hurt Papyrus.

But now… now this protective frown is reserved for you.

Ellie settles on Sans’ opposite shoulder, rather than landing on your own stiff and still-slightly-injured one. Her own expression is stormy and promises retribution to the offending parties.

“you’re not doing this alone.” Sans mutters, close to your ear, almost a growl (Lord have _mercy_ you are too fucked up by the extent of the shit that this day has thrown at you, you can’t even fully appreciate that). “not anymore. i’m sorry but i _can’t_ just stand back anymore.” His hand twitches against your side, and you let out the tiniest sigh of acquiescence, leaning into him.

“Don’t deserve you.” You mumble into his shoulder. “Don’t deserve either of you.”

“too bad,” he murmurs back, his voice going softer again, “you’re stuck with us.”

“‘Til the end.” Ellie nods her agreement, a fierce look in her eye.

You hobble along the path with both of them, half-carried by Sans whenever you make a turn, and there’s a moment where you think that a violently vibrating training-dummy looking monster is about to attack you, but Sans looks toward said monster sharply and the tension in the air spikes. Ellie, you can barely see, is also beaking at her talons -- a habit you had long since learned was used to sharpen both the beak and the talons. The dummy, wisely, backs the fuck off.

The paths that follow are through the marshland and you find your boots sticking in the mud more times than you care to count. It comes as a surprise, albeit not an unpleasant one, when Sans finally pauses and hooks the arm that had been holding your arm over his shoulder under your knees, scooping you up with ease. You let out a small undignified yelp of surprise at it, but go quiet, trying furiously not to blush at the brief, irredeemably _smug_ look that Ellie sends your way.

He only lets you down once you all step onto sturdy stone again, letting you continue to hobble around while hanging off of his side. You appreciate the fact that he’s giving you the chance to ‘walk’ on your own, and not treating you like you’re about to shatter. No matter how close to actually breaking you might in fact be, it’s… nice, the quiet, unquestioning nature of that afforded respect.

Like he’s acknowledging that you’re still strong, even when you’re at probably your weakest point of today. Maybe it was seeing you fix your own leg and stand up. Maybe it was insisting that you had to find Kid.

He’s looking at you differently. Or… not entirely differently. You never quite noticed how you felt more like you could do the impossible whenever he looked at you before.

His presence is also admittedly a much kinder boon as well. With him helping you walk, you don’t have time to read any more than snippets of the plaques on the walls, since he keeps you moving. You don’t get the chance to stop and listen to the flowers, don’t get the chance to torment yourself with hyper-empathetic sorrows. You also notice that his eyes are always roving, flickering from the environment (doubtlessly focused on the task of finding Kid) to you (always checking, always making sure you were okay -- a fire in a blizzard, starlight in the deepest depths of the ocean, you need a _name_ for this feeling).

You check the area around what seems to be a central hub of Waterfall, running into Napstablook as you do. You all manage vaguely polite greetings and promise to come visit him if and when you get the chance. Still no sign of Kid. Not even around what Ellie proclaims to be Undyne’s house, there’s no sign of him.

Sans offers quietly to pop back to Snowdin and check if he went back on his own, but you tighten your grip on his jacket sleeve and his grip around your waist immediately squeezes in return, and the idea is dropped without further discussion. Instead, he pulls out his cell phone with his free hand and shoots off a quick text to Kid’s mother, both explaining the situation and asking if Kid had already gotten back.

“when we get back tonight,” he says softly as he sends it, “you and i are going to have a serious talk about helping each other, alright?”

You offer a rueful grin his way, leaning more heavily against his shoulder.

You’re just turning down another hallway when the return text comes. Kid has not returned to Snowdin (and is coincidentally _grounded forever_ when he gets home). Ellie hops off of Sans’ shoulder and starts to hover, almost fidgeting in the air, glancing at an upcoming shop.

“That’s Gerson’s shop.” she says, when you cast a questioning glance her way. Her voice is soft and conflicted. Your eyes soften in understanding.

“You wanna stop in and say hi?” you ask, and she looks a little guilty.

“We probably shouldn’t.” she admits softly, hovering over in front of you, “He’ll know about you.”

“yeah, gerson’s probably one of the few monsters who can recognize humans on sight.” Sans agrees softly.

“So?” you arch an eyebrow toward the two of them, surging with stubborn determination for their sake. “I’m a human, it’s an established fact and people are going to have to get used to it eventually, right?” you shrug your bad shoulder, doing your best and failing to stifle the wince at the sting (you notice Sans’ eyes locked on your face, and a small frown forming on his face.) “Besides, Ellie Bean, I know it’d make you happy. And...” another small, uncertain smile, “I’m safe with you two.”

There’s a moment of silence where they’re just staring at you. Sans looks like he doesn’t know how to respond, like he doesn’t know whether to be worried about you or flattered, and then Ellie lets out the tiniest wail and flies directly into your face, spreading her wings on either side like a hug. You react on instinct, lifting your left hand (another tremor and wince when you bend your elbow) so that she doesn’t fall on impact.

“You need to _stop,_ ” she sniffles, “being so _precious_.”

Your fingers flex against her, and you duck your head into the impromptu hug with a quivery smile, “It’s okay if you get fed up of all this,” you laugh a little bit, humorlessly. “You can still fly off any time, you know.”

“Shut up.” she sniffles again, “We’re having a moment. Don’t ruin this for me.”

After she pulls back, still sniffling a little bit, you offer one more small smile. You don’t deserve these friends you’ve made, but you have them. The least you can do now is make sure you’re trying to return the favor.

“Now come on, dropping in really quick can’t possibly cause any problems. Besides, it’s a shop, right? A quick look around might be good for the sanity.” you’re sure that your grin isn’t quite cutting it but you’re stubbornly holding onto it anyway. You turn to look up at Sans, and feel your own smile soften at the quiet, thoughtful sort of smile _he’s_ giving _you_.

“nothing stops you, huh?” he asks, with a soft, fond note of admiration in his voice. His cheekbones are a very, very faint blue color, over his nasal ridge. You feel your own cheeks go pink, and turn a slightly goofy smile toward the floor.

You all hobble into the shop, and Ellie flits right over to the counter, and you can hear her twitter out a squeaky, almost criminally excited ‘Good afternoon, Mr. Gerson!’ There’s a tiny part of you that is still hyper-aware of the fact that the elderly turtle behind the counter has locked eyes on you. Sans makes a point of turning with you to help you over to one of the shelves, deliberately placing himself in between you and the old turtle monster.

You bite your lip and lean against him, pretending to take an interest in the items littering the shelving in the shop.

“Afternoon.” The voice that answers Ellie is creaky in that indescribable _old man_ way, but there's a note of mirth in it. You still feel his gaze on you, and you also feel the tension radiating from Sans.

“How are you today? Anything interesting?” Ellie continues, though there's a note of uncertainty in her voice now. She's taken notice. You bite at the inside of your lip to avoid grimacing.

“We-heh-hell,” the old turtle snickers, and you redouble your efforts of looking interested in the wares. “Two monsters I thought I knew quite well managed to surprise me today!” he's clearly enjoying making all of you uncomfortable. You're not sure if you hate it or find it stupidly endearing, because you're pretty sure “making younger people uncomfortable” is one of those unspoken privileges afforded by age. You sneak a peek out of the corner of your eyes and see purposeful glints of amusement in the cloudy old eyes.

“Really?” Ellie squeaks, clearly flustered.

“Oh yes. Two folks of unquestionable loyalty, always looking out for people, always good for a gab or a laugh. In the King’s trust an’ everything! Kind a’folks I never been disappointed in, and didn't expect t’be, managed to disappoint me anyway. Came in with an injured human!”

Sans is absolutely rigid beside you, beginning to radiate a dangerous sort of aura, and Ellie lets out a squeaky chirp of guilt, her feathers falling flat against her head. You sigh and finally turn to face the counter, resigned to your fate and the knowledge that this was, in fact, a mistake--

“And much to my surprise, they didn't even ask for a _chair_ so she could get off of that bum leg a’hers.” The old turtle shakes his head in mock disappointment. “Damn shame, _damn_ shame. Thought I'd never see the day!”

Ellie drops a few inches in the air in surprise with a spluttered squawk. You feel yourself go still, and are pretty damn sure your jaw has dropped. Your eyes are wide and you feel like a deer in headlights. Sans is just as still beside you and the dangerous undertone of the energy radiating off of him has solidified into a distinct feeling of barely suppressed attack magic. Much to your surprise, even as pushed down as it is, the barest sense of it is almost enough to make you legitimately afraid of what he’s capable of. Sans feels like a foe you should only underestimate at your own risk.

(You realize kind of belatedly that you’ve not ever actually _seen_ him using any kind of hostile magic before. You have no idea of his potential capabilities and this faint sensation of power is _daunting_ in that respect.)

Gerson, however, starts cackling, a wheezy old man laugh that breaks the silence without fear, despite the sheer dangerous potential you're feeling from Sans. “Wah-ahahahaha! Oh, stars, y’all are so easily worked up! Simmer down, bone boy, I may be old as dust but I kin still put you in yer place.” He raises a cane with a crooked toothed smirk. “Now, that chair? I c’n understand why you might not want an old fart like me offering a healing hand, but that knee is balloonin’ to the size of a froggit.”

You almost numbly look down at your knee to see how much it's started to swell. Even with Sans holding the majority of your weight off of it, the sheer fact is that you’re hobbling around with an injured knee. You look up again, blinking, before nodding timidly.

“Please?” you ask, a bit weakly, despite the twitch of a squeeze around your waist from Sans’ hand.

Gerson nods toward you, a toothy grin on his face. “You look like you could use a breather, today, eh?” He hobbles out from behind the counter, leaning heavily on his cane and hooking his other clawed hand around a spare chair behind the counter. You squeeze around Sans’ shoulders and he reluctantly helps you hobble over to the chair, where you sit and immediately feel the throbbing in your leg ease down.

“I'm sure I got some eatin’s here somewhere fer you three, if you've got a few minutes to spare.” Gerson snickers under his breath, hobbling around again until he can duck under the counter again. You eyeball his trek from the chair before glancing upward to meet eyes with Ellie, who looks flabbergasted (a quite impressive accomplishment for a bird, you think) and then with Sans, who looks kind of like he’s still trying to bite down on the urge to summon up an attack.

You look back down at your legs, taking in the way that your right knee is, in fact, swelling to the size of a grapefruit. You can feel the way that Sans and Ellie follow your gaze. It’s pretty damn obvious that you’re not going to be able to stand steadily for a while.

Still.

“We can’t stay.” your voice is shaky.

“Ten minutes.” Ellie begs.

Sans immediately shakes his head, “we still gotta find kid. five at the _most_ . but at least long enough to eat something.” The last portion of his statement is directed at you, with force, and you know he’s going to hold his ground about that. “you _need_ healing.”

You blink. Oh. Yeah. That’s right. Monster food heals injuries.

That’s… a thing.

“...okay, five minutes.” You agree softly. “But then we’re back out looking.” You go quiet again as Gerson reappears from behind the counter with three slightly chipped mugs of something steaming and smelling vaguely sweet like honey and syrup. He holds out the tray to you and Sans, and you take one first, watching Sans select one as well. You notice that Sans matches you almost automatically in waiting until Gerson takes a sip of the remaining cup before you both take a sip yourselves.

The liquid sweetness and warmth spreads from your tongue throughout your system, and you can't quite stop the soft, contented sigh that pushes through your nostrils. The ache in your bones lessens, even if it doesn't entirely go away. You notice the swelling in your knee starting to go down, as well, even though it’s not the instantaneous ‘full heal’ that you’d gotten from Toriel. (You’d learned three days or so ago that healing magic had its limitations, and it took truly powerful healing magic to heal you entirely. Your respect for Toriel had gone up significantly.)

You hear Sans make a sound of quiet surprise, almost like he didn't expect the food to be actually helpful.

Gerson snickers, looking extra amused over the chipped edge of his own mug. “Surprised, eh?” He lets out another soft cackle of a laugh, downing a bit more, “Honestly, y’all are jumpy. ‘M retired, kiddos. No more heroics fer me.”

Sans is still very tense somewhere in the general vicinity of your four-o’clock, and you take a few seconds to reach backwards and find his hand with yours. He grips it like a lifeline.

“On that note, though,” Gerson’s eyes sharpen, the mirth fading from them, “I realize you’re in a hurry to get gone, but I _would_ actually prefer to have an actual conversation with y’all. If y’get the chance.”

“Maybe later.” Ellie offers meekly, and you duck your head into your cup and try to focus on the way that healing magic feels through your system. (A very small part of you wonders if it’s something that can be taught, or learned, but the majority of you is just _intensely_ intrigued by the unique feeling of each monster’s magic. Gerson’s is slow but steady, with a stiff, almost pebbled feeling to it.)

“yeah,” Sans agrees, a note of discomfort in his voice, even as you finish your cup of seemingly liquid honey, “we’re kind of in the middle of something--sir.” you think he almost forgot the respectful honorific. You tentatively hold the empty cup back out toward Gerson again, and watch as he easily hooks the handle with his cane, taking it back without having to get too close to you again. You're grateful.

“Then let me at least say this to _you two_ ,” Gerson directs his gaze toward Ellie and Sans, both of whom are still hovering near you. “When you make your choices, _stick with ‘em._ Be willin’ to argue your case. There are some cases where yer _supposed_ to be partial.”

You sense more than see your two protectors go tense and still, but by the time you look around again they're unaffected and almost relaxed. Ellie has a determined glint in her eyes, but Sans’ expression is carefully unreadable. You feel a short burst of unease, but he notices your gaze and immediately softens toward you.

“we'll keep that in mind, old man.” He says, breaking eye contact with you to look up at Gerson again.

“W… wait, what?” you blink looking between the three of them.

Gerson cackles again, even as Sans helps you stand up again. Ellie settles on your shoulder, nuzzling your cheek. “I'll explain later.” She mumbles to you. “For right now, let's go find Kid.”

You cast a quick glance her way, a look that demands that promise, before you smile politely toward Gerson and let Sans lead you out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that for this week's chapter! Be sure to leave me lots of comments and tune in roughly the same time next week for chapter 31, "Crash and Burn". It's gonna be a doozy. :3


	31. Crash and Burn

Waterfall is big. It's probably the largest part of the underground you have encountered yet, and even with Sans helping you hobble along there's a part of you that feels a sinking dread that you may not find Kid in time. The marshy ground seems to latch onto your boots even when the flooding is low, and every passing minute feels like another nail in a coffin.

Undyne feels like a spectre hanging over your shoulder with every step. You think at one point you see Sans flick a glowing blue bone off in the general direction of ‘behind you’, and it shoots off at a dangerous sort of speed.

The paths go dark, lined only by phosphorescent mushrooms. Ellie flutters from mushroom to mushroom, landing on each one briefly to light it, always staying within ten feet of you and Sans. Sans, for his part, sets his eye glowing again -- this time a bright, fluorescent blue that matches the mushroom’s light. You notice that most of the small monsters traversing the paths shy away from your group as soon as they see Sans with his eye glowing bright, even when you’ve seen complete strangers walk up and start chatting with him. Even Ellie seems a little unnerved by it, though you can tell she’s trying her best not to be obvious about it.

He’s emanating power again, and while you feel like you should probably be just as intimidated by it as the rest of the monsters around you, the fact remains that he is warm and solid and he’s holding you up like you’re a dancer, a delicate thing to be graceful with, and you feel _safe_ . You’re leery of what he could _do_ , but you’re not afraid of _him_.

You’re so used to being afraid of everything that the realization is kind of disconcerting.

 _Are you to blame for this?_ You ask your Hormones.

Your hormones send back a delighted but also confused shrug, along with the patented “I dunno” noise.

Still, even left alone with your thoughts in the quiet, the sickening feeling in your gut only seems to get worse with every step. What if you didn’t find him? What if you _did_ find him, but he was hurt? Or _worse_? What if he _died_ because you didn’t stay with him and _make sure_ that Sans took him home, instead of trying to be stupid and chase the danger away from him?

It’s not until Sans squeezes around your waist that you realize you’re starting to gnaw at your lower lip, to the point where it’s going to start bleeding again.

You rather belatedly startle yourself with a brilliant thought somewhere along the line and pull out your own phone, shooting off a quick text to Alphys -- a thought you should have had before, but in all honesty, _fuck your inconveniently nonfunctional brain with a chainsaw_.

 

> _ >> Camera check!! Help!! Find Kid??? _ _  
> _ _ >> [Sent file ‘thislittleshit.jpeg’] _

And then you continue stumbling through the darkness. It’s uncomfortably quiet, and you’re sure that your two monster compatriots can sense how tense you are. You’re not sure if you want someone to break the silence, or if you’re grateful that they’re keeping their goddamn mouths shut.

...Actually. You’re definitely glad they’re keeping their goddamn mouths shut. You’re liable to lose your goddamn mind from stress if they don’t.

You nearly shriek when your phone goes off, even though you're in a sense expecting it. Your hands are shaking as you pull it out.

 

> _Alphys :: just keep walking,_ _  
> _ _Alphys :: you should run into him soon._

Sans tightens his grip on your waist to keep you steady, and you’re sure that he’s reading over your shoulder, since he speeds up his walking pace without needing to be asked. You’re all nearly jogging by the time you come to the bridge.

The strong wood underneath your feet feels far more solid than the marshy ground had been, and you breathe out a soft sigh of relief to have steady ground under you again. The ache in your knee is manageable, but you know that you’re not going to pretend that you can handle all of this for much longer.

Relief floods your system almost the second you hear the stammered, “H… Hey!” from behind you. You’re already turning, despite Sans’ arm, almost frantic until you catch sight of Kid, standing on the end of the bridge you just crossed over. He’s standing firm, gnawing on his lip, and looks like he’s doing his best to look brave.

“ _Kid_ ,” you wheeze out in relief, “Oh thank the stars, I’m so glad we found you.”

“Miss.” He pulls his shoulders back, like he’s drawing himself up as big as he can be, and steps forward on the bridge, toward you and Sans. Slowly, so slowly, he advances until he’s only a couple of feet away -- still out of grabbing range, but you can see him eyeing Sans nervously. “I...” He drops his gaze down, seeming to shrink, all of his courage deserting him in an instant. “I never thought I’d ever ask someone this before.” he scuffs one clawed foot against the wood. “But, miss… are you human?”

You could cut the silence with a knife. Your heart stammers out one more uneven beat before your brain connects what’s going on and what’s _really_ happening here. That look of firm forced courage and its replacement of small, quivering fear in Kid’s eyes -- the way he had started staring at you like you’re suddenly something to be feared. This is the truth of what it means to be a human, down here.

“Kid…” you breathe, your heart aching. “I…”

“Is that why Undyne was attacking you?” he peeks upward again, eyes wide and searching, begging for you to deny it, to tell him that Undyne has to be mistaken, that his worldview is still the same and you’re still the nice lady who works at Grillby’s and who bakes yummy treats on some mornings and who _always_ makes sure he gets his second treat before he leaves.

You swallow heavily, squaring your own shoulders, and nod down toward him. You are a human. You can’t deny that.

“But…” he looks devastated. “But that means I’m supposed to hate you.”

“According to some, I suppose.” you grant. Everything hurts, from your soul to the tips of your fingers, and you’re kind of belatedly realizing that this, this sheer _heartbreak_ , this has been enough to make you stop shaking. You’re in the critical warning zone. You forge on anyway. “Listen, Kid, no matter what happens, I… even if you do end up hating me, I’m just glad to see you’re okay, alright? Please just, let Sans take you home, okay? So I can rest easy knowing you’re safe. _Please._ ”

His face crumples up, and it’s obvious he’s holding back hiccupy tears. “H-Hah… you’re, uh, really not making it… _easy_ , y’know, um…” he sniffles, “P-Please, Miss, can you… say something mean? S-So I…”

You break eye contact, ducking your head and biting your lip. There’s a pause, before he lets out one more watery laugh. “Man… I’m such a turd.” he shakes his head, and you glance up with an apologetic twist of your lips. “I’m just… gonna go home.” he hunches down on himself again and turns around, walking the first few feet back down the bridge, but--

Your arm is extended out toward him when his footing falters over an uneven board on the bridge, and the tip of a glowing magical spear nearly pierces your palm before it’s deflected by a shield of bones. Sans is blazing with power, a tempest of magic threatening to send the bridge splintering-- Undyne is on the other end of the bridge, one of her eyes gleaming just as brightly as Sans’, a new spear materializing in her hand-- Ellie has let out a battle cry and is in the process of winging directly at Undyne’s face, furiously determined to not make the same mistakes twice--

Everything is happening at once, but you feel like you’re moving in slow motion as you wrench yourself out of Sans’ grip, and take one faltering step, two. Your arm is still flung forward, toward where Kid is holding onto the bridge with his teeth, frantically flailing and trying to kick his way back up.

Your knee buckles underneath you right as you fling yourself the last few feet to grab for his sweater. You overbalance, and can’t correct your trajectory in time, and for an instant you swear you see Frisk’s face instead of Kid’s--

But then your right hand has latched around his sweater, seconds before his bite fails him, and your left hand has slammed onto the edge of the bridge, and _gripped_.

Shooting pain explodes from your already injured shoulder and you have to bite down on a shriek of agony. You’re hanging by one hand, your _bad_ hand, the arm that’s _now bleeding again_. You’re swinging slightly from inertia, and you’ve got your other hand wrapped around Kid’s sweater to keep him from falling. You grit your teeth and pull him up, bending one leg to get him upright so you can wrap your arm around his waist. He wraps his legs around your hips, and is immediately more stable.

 **_[_ ** **_File.”WhatMakesAPersonBrave”_saved]_ **

Your fingers are slipping. Your arm is… (numb isn’t the word, numb implies that you still sense it’s there -- do you even have an arm now? Did it get ripped out of socket? Are you dying?)

You can’t continue holding with this hand.

You have to swap arms, but you need a way to hold onto Kid-- and he can’t hold onto you, he doesn’t have arms, he--

\--he has teeth.

And you’ve seen him grip onto things like a bulldog before.

“Kid--” You wheeze, frantic, “you need to trust me, don’t question, just bi--”

 

 

 

 

 

 

You lose your grip.

* * *

  
[File.”WhatMakesAPersonBrave”_loaded]

* * *

“Kid--!” you tremble, feeling woozy and faint. “Trust me--” you weakly shove his face toward your shoulder, “And--”

* * *

  
[File.”WhatMakesAPersonBrave”_loaded]

* * *

“ _Oh._ ” you gasp, blinking darkness from the edges of your eyes, because the worst part is -- you’re getting used to it. You recognize what’s happening, you realize that you don’t have the time you clearly think you have, you need to--

* * *

  
[File.”WhatMakesAPersonBrave”_loaded]

* * *

 

“Kid.” you snap, because you don’t _have_ time to explain, you don't _have_ the time to think, you just shove his face toward your bad shoulder and bark out, “ _Bite_.”

And thank the stars above.

He bites.

He doesn’t question, doesn’t hesitate, your order goes right past the objective part of his brain and hits right on instinct, and he jams his face over your shoulder and latches his surprisingly sharp teeth into the soft fleshy part just under your collar bones. New pain, _cold_ pain, spreads like ice through your system from the new wound, combatting against the too-warm spray of blood -- you hear him give a faint whimper, but he doesn’t let go--

You unwind your good arm from around him, swing it upward, and manage to snag the bridge only a few seconds before your left hand loses its grip. Your bad arm loops around him, and you tangle your numb fingers into the now-tattered fabric of your jacket. You can’t feel anything from your shoulder to your fingertips on that side.

But it’s fine. You’ve got a better grip on the other arm. You can hold on with this arm. You can’t pull up, but you can keep the both of you from falling. Again.

And hey, your eyesight is starting to return to you from that oil-slick blackness from before that means you’ve _died_ , that’s a plus.

This is fine. This is absolutely fine.

Ellie has somehow managed to drive Undyne back, and Sans looks a touch dizzy himself, but he’s got an absurdly tall wall of bones blocking off the bridge so that Undyne can’t get past. He’s already turned toward you, extending a glowing hand your way--

You feel your soul go blue, a much smoother transition than when Papyrus attempted to do it, rather like being wrapped up in a tight bodysuit and pulled upward at a controlled pace. The aching creaking of your fingers loosens as you feel yourself becoming incredibly heavy, and paradoxically weightless. It feels like a giant hand is wrapped around your lungs and is very gently squeezing the air out of them, but you do your best to keep your panic pressed down.

It’s not until you’re back on solid land that you ragdoll onto your side. You let out the weakest, most manic giggle of a laugh, curling yourself around Kid, who has started shaking from head to toe. The laughing continues, growing higher in pitch until you’re sobbing, your good arm curled tight around him and your nose pressed into the scales on the top of his head.

You pull back to look at his face, at the wide eyes and the trembling, bloodstained lip. You brush your thumb over it to try and smear the blood away, crying and laughing and smiling and _absolutely losing your shit_.

“You did so good.” You wheeze, pulling him back into a hug again, “So good, Kid, you did exactly what I needed you to do, thank the _Stars_.”

He burrows forward into your torso, absolutely wracked with tremors, and begins to wail himself. It starts low and slow, but grows like an air raid siren into a sound that seems to echo around you. You curl tighter, trying to seek out that fleeting feeling of bravery, that one particular sense of certainty with the world -- you don’t know _how_ you’re apparently “saving”, but you want, more than anything in the world right now, to save over this version of reality. This version where you both lived and he’s okay and you’re-- well, not okay, but not _dead_.

“Kid!” you hear in stereo, three voices calling out in various levels of alarm, and you instinctively curl tighter around him when he tries to burrow further into your stomach.

“I just wanna go home,” he wails into your shirt, snot staining the material just the same as blood already has. “I don’t wanna adventure anymore.”

You croon a soft, understanding note into the top of his head, hugging him tightly and scratching your nails behind a few of the protruding spikes on the back of his head, “I know, I know, you’ll be home soon, Kid, we’ve gotta get you cleaned up first, okay? No need worrying your mom.” you gently press him back again, so that you can get a look at his face, “Okay? You’re okay-- everything’s going to be okay--”

“oh my god.” you hear Sans whisper, sounding sick, and Ellie lets out an absolutely terrifying sound of mixed horror and despair. Your eyes, though, are on Kid, and on the way his own eyes widen and lock onto your shoulder-- the spot where he bit, just above where the wound in your arm had reopened--

Huh.

Shouldn’t that… hurt?

Now that you think about it, your arm had been bleeding a scary amount the last time, and you’d introduced another wound to the mix, and… you feel… dizzy…

...why does your… chest feel… tight…?

“undyne--” Sans snaps over his shoulder, “you’re better at healing than me.”

“What the _hell_ are you talking about, Sans?!” the echoing sound of a harshly feminine tone underneath heavy armor comes, but you can’t focus on it.

“ _help_ _me heal her_ ,” Sans snarls, already at your side, his hands pressed against your arm and shoulder and glowing bright blue-green, pressing ice through your system -- but it’s not fast enough, it’s-- you’re…

“If she _dies_ then we get to go _free_ , Sans--”

“ ** _i_ _don’t care!_** ” he sounds half-mad, he’s pouring so much magic into trying to heal you and you can feel it like heavy weights throughout your bloodstream, like a massive weight pressing down on your chest, slowing your bloodflow, pressing your lungs like air pumps to keep you breathing, and you...

You are **_terrified_ ** of what he’s doing right now, you’re afraid of what’s happening, you’re scared and he is _everything_ and you’re _drowning_ in it and _panicking_ and

You think you might really be dying. Not the quick kind either, like the last four times, not the kind where your soul immediately realizes there’s no point, where you almost don’t get the chance to realize what’s going on -- no, you’re dying the good old fashioned way, slowly and painfully and somehow you know that _you are going to remember this._

You will remember how he could control every aspect of your living form from within, you will remember being submerged and completely helpless to this insane power he has, the way he’s micromanaging gravity within and without your system like a puppeteer tugging at strings.

“Rrrragh! Fine!” You hear heavy footfalls sprinting over the bridge, and feel the ground shake as another form falls beside you, the clatter of metal gauntlets nearby, cold hands--

It’s like lightning. Undyne’s magic is sharp, electric, and leaves the scent of ozone toying at the back of your mouth. It’s not as instantaneous as Toriel’s magic had been, but it’s powerful, and it’s _fast_. You wheeze a gasp despite Sans’ careful control of your lungs, as you feel it racing through your system, centering over your arm and your dislocated knee.

There is so much magic in your system right now that it _hurts_ but you know you need to hold out, need to let this happen, this might be the only way you survive beyond the next two minutes--

You feel your knee and arm wounds stitch themselves together, and feel it all attempt to converge on your shoulder. But

You feel

Cold.

So cold.

It’s not reaching.

It.

_Hurts._

_You can’t --_

**_breathe--_ **

**_y o u ’ r e--_ **

“why isn’t it healing?!” You hear Sans start, before it’s _too much_ and you can’t hold back the agonized scream anymore.

“That’s enough! That’s enough! Stop, you’re doing more harm than good now!” Ellie screeches, and then you’re limp. The magic coursing through your system is pulled back so suddenly that you feel a prickling sense of loss, even as all of your muscles twitch with aftershocks.

You roll onto your side, despite your bleeding shoulder, curling yourself up into as tight a ball as you can manage while blocking it off from reach, and let out a soft, shattered sob.


	32. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ P r o c e s s i n g . . . . . ]
> 
>  
> 
> [Player Input idle for: **[12]** Minutes]
> 
>  
> 
> [ P r o c e s s i n g . . . . . ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well we've hit 100k words and they STILL haven't kissed yet.

“i don’t understand,” Sans mutters somewhere above you, even as you curl tighter in upon yourself, “undyne, were you holding back?”

“Do I _ever_ hold back?!” Undyne snarls, accompanied by the sound of heavy armor being moved -- you don’t look up, but her voice gets marginally clearer to understand, so you vaguely assume that she’s removed her helmet. “ _Stars,_ Sans, you got me to start something, of course I wasn’t holding back! No matter if it makes no sense, I agreed to do it and I damn well was going to do it!”

“then why--” he’s raising his voice, clearly frustrated. You shudder throughout your entire body, trying to stifle your sniffling, and two smaller forms settle in your bubble, though they’re carefully not touching you. Ellie and Kid, you think.

Ellie croons something soft near you; then again, more worried, when you make no responsive noise.

You know these things are happening, but you don’t feel present for them. They’re happening, but they’re not happening to _you_ . You’re there, but you’re not _there_.

It’s not like when you dissociated. It’s vastly different -- dissociating felt like floating free of your own body, like everything about you was too small, and you had to step outside of yourself for a moment, like you were shedding a heavy blanket except that blanket was your _skin. This…_ This feels like the opposite. _You_ feel small, like you’re falling deeper into the dark chasm of emptiness within your chest.

You’re looking through a window out at the world. You know the world is out there, but… you don’t know how to get back out again.

You don't know if you _want_ to.

“She's unresponsive.” Ellie announces softly, “I think the magical backlash might have sent her into shock.”

“It’s my fault.” Kid mumbles, and Sans and Undyne cut themselves off. “I bit her.”

“Kid, it’s not--” Undyne starts, her tone shifting from fiercely annoyed to defensive fast enough to give you whiplash.

“No, it is!” he’s asserting, despite the way his voice is still shaking and he still sounds sniffly. “My family’s magic is a _blocker_. It’s mostly defensive. Keeps us from getting sick. But I bit her, and…” he lets out one more loud sniffly hiccup, “I was so scared. I… I think I used magic.”

There's a few seconds of intense silence. That would explain why Sans’ and Undyne's healing magic wouldn't reach your shoulder.

“Then we’ll have to wrap it up.” Ellie finally says, her voice soft and emotionally strained, but steady. “Sans, can you turn her over? And help get the jacket off. Clothes can be replaced, we need to make sure she doesn’t bleed out.”

You feel hands press gently against your upturned shoulder, feel your jacket get untied from around your waist, and feel yourself be moved to lay on your back.

“Alright,” Ellie sighs from somewhere to the left of you, while Sans settles your head on your backpack for cushioning. Your eyes are pointed toward the many stalactites on the distant ceiling of the cavern; you could, maybe, move your eyes to follow the conversation, but you’re still… trying to process everything that’s happened.

One second you had been entirely, painfully ‘functional’. You’d been pushing through everything as though there was nothing wrong, you hadn’t been _okay_ but you were grateful for the little blessings, like having gotten through the latest hurdle with… minimal damage. Sure, you had felt an odd aching numbness in the place where your soul resided, but you figured that was probably from the Load.

Then… then you’d registered just _how much was actually_ **_wrong._ **

Your shoulder had been shredded by Kid’s sharp little teeth, and there was a bone-deep ache in your collar bone. It had been steadily oozing down to soak most of your shirt, spreading coldness all down your side. And on top of that, the laceration on your upper arm had split open once again. How had you not realized how much you were bleeding? It was a wonder you didn’t pass out.

And then...

Your mind screeches to a stop. It won’t proceed. It refuses.

You can’t even think about it. So there you lay, your eyes unfocused, hidden in the cottony blankness, away from everything that’s happening.

“Undyne,” Ellie continues her own thought, though you register it rather like a voice recorder -- there is context, you know you will probably come back to this later when you can actually process, but for now all it is is sounds. “would you please tear the bottom hem of her jacket into long strips, or cut it with one of your spears? It's going to have to do until we get her back to Snowdin.”

“Alternately,” Undyne's voice comes, sickly sweet and carrying a bite of something bitter. “We could just let her die, take her soul--”

“Undyne, please. I won't ask again.”

“ _Don't_ talk down at me, pipsqueak.” there's a note of a snarl in Undyne's voice, “I out _rank_ you.”

“ _Not in this._ ” Ellie’s voice holds a shocking note of danger in it, and you feel her hop up onto your stomach, her feathers flared in warning. “You have zero claim over her soul.”

“I have my orders--”

“And I have mine!” Ellie throws her wings out and launches into a hover off of your stomach, flying alarmingly close to Undyne's face (you distantly feel a tremor of unease, thinking of Undyne's sharp needle teeth so close to your small and fierce friend). “She named me the trustee of her soul, and I accepted the role, and by the Law of Binding Oaths, if you interfere with that then you are in contempt of the law. Her wishes are to be allowed to live her life before her soul is given to monsterkind in _peace_ , and it's _my role_ to protect those wishes, so, you can _help us_ and be patient, or you can keep pushing me and see how good my aim is.” Her voice drops into a fierce snarl, “At least, _while you can still see._ ”

“Wh--” Undyne sputters, backing up a bit, her eye blazing. “Are you _threatening me,_ runt?”

“it's only a threat if you're tactless enough to keep pushing.” Sans mutters from above your head, and tosses your jacket at Undyne’s face. “i'm not surprised about her naming you trustee, ells, but i am surprised she's already named one.”

“She might have not realized what she was doing in the moment, but it fit the requirements.” Ellie flutters back down to settle on your stomach again, letting out a tired croon toward your face. “ _Ellie, if I die, I want you to take my soul._ She named me, and gave me the request, and I accepted.”

“When did this happen?” Undyne asks, reluctantly sounding interested even as you hear the sound of tearing fabric.

“First day, just before we got to Snowdin.” Ellie hops upward from your stomach to your chest, reaching up to beak gently at the loose tangles making a mess of the end of your hair.

“explains why you stuck around, i guess.” Sans mutters. “i sorta always wondered why you were settling for an old sweatshirt on the top of the couch. doesn’t ol’ king fluffybuns have something pretty cushy set up for you in the capital?”

Ellie’s expression goes tight and pinched, and she looks away, down at her taloned feet. “I'm very… grateful for it, don't get me wrong. I'm sure I owe my life to the king’s compassion. And the Roost is… okay.” She mumbles, “But it, and my job… weren't exactly gifts given of _kindness_ , on his part, you know? He'll be fair with all his subjects, but folks are still a little leery of… my _kind_ . The Roost was for everyone _else_ , not for me.”

There's a moment silence as all four of them digest some unspoken truth. “she doesn't know, then?” Sans murmurs above your head. “i thought…”

“I don't exactly _advertise it_.” Ellie declares back, a note of finality in her voice. “But in any case. The greatest gift given in pity pales next to a small but genuine one. She…” she lets out a small, unfocused chirrup, “She trusts me with her soul. I don't know why, or how I can deserve that kind of trust, but that's the greatest kindness I've ever gotten.”

You hear Undyne move over toward you again, and Ellie hops off of your stomach to wing over to Kid, who’s been too quiet. “Sans,” she calls over one wing, twisting her head to look at the aforementioned skeleton, “Can you take Kid home? And then wait for us to text you before you come back?” she’s got the softest, exhausted, most sensible tone you can imagine. You feel Sans glance your way, then feel his eyes leave, and there’s another sound of fabric tearing from Undyne ripping a new strip of bandaging before he gives a soft, reluctant ‘oh’ in realization.

“I promise Undyne’ll behave if she knows what’s good for her.” Ellie bites out, an acidic warning note in her voice. “And we’ll text you as soon as it’s done.”

“i-- yeah. of course. alright.” there’s a barely-noticeable half-second of hesitation before he finally says, “c’mon, kiddo, let’s get you home safe.” You register that odd pulse of magical energy in the area with a distant, clinical sort of observation. He's gone for now.

Cold hands ease you to sit up, working with a deliberate precision akin to a military hospital. Your shirt is carefully peeled off, exposing your torn up shoulder to the warm, humid air of Waterfall. Ellie gives a sickened sounding cry and Undyne lets out a low whistle between her needle sharp teeth.

“Stars, s’almost as bad as when I lost my eye.” Undyne mutters. “She's lucky to still have her arm.”

“Lucky doesn't cover it.” Ellie murmurs softly, still hovering near your face and seeking some sort of responsiveness from you. “Fair warning, I'm going to have some serious words with you once things aren't so crazy.”

“Over?” there’s a reluctantly amused tone imbued in the word. You feel Undyne peel your blood soaked bra off. Maybe you would be flustered normally, but her movements are careful and deliberate and you don't have the will to react at all. She begins tying a tight layer of bandaging around your shoulder.

“The platforms down.” Ellie’s voice is pointedly toneless. “Alphys texted Sans while we were waiting for her to wake up and told us what she’d seen.” There’s a poignant pause, before she lowers her voice further. “You hesitated.”

Undyne doesn’t answer. Her hands go still against your skin, holding the bandages in place.

“You _hesitated_ .” Ellie repeats, her forcefully calm veneer cracking. “For a second, a full _second_ , Undyne, you hesitated. You considered _not doing what you did._ ”

“Okay, yeah, I considered it!” Undyne snaps back, finally moving to continue wrapping your shoulder again, “I've gotta have at least a little respect for someone willing to _face down_ incoming death! She bared her chest to me like she was making herself an easier target!” she let's out a faint puff of air, her voice losing a bit of its edge. “And on the way down it almost didn't seem like she was running _away from me_ . It was like… like it was _me_ being chased.”

She ties off the first layer of bandaging after making sure your arm can move freely, then starts wrapping a second layer around it. The dark blue material seems incongruous with your skin, out of place in this context, especially with the unnatural pallor from blood loss. You let your head be tilted away from your shoulder and try to think of anything else.

“So yeah.” she mutters, her own voice holding a gruff note of ...confusion? “I thought twice about it.”

“See,” Ellie gives one short, annoyed chirp, “It’s not that part that I have a problem with, and the part that I will be chewing you out on later. The thing I take personal offense to is that you had a _choice._ She wasn’t the only one who made a meaningful choice today. You could have left her alone entirely. You could have backed off. Or you could have followed through and attacked her directly.” Her feathers fluff up in a show of aggression, even though her voice is starting to quiver. “If you were going to try and kill her anyway, you could have _at least_ made it a quick death.”

Her voice cracks on the last few words, breaking into a wheezy, not-quite-sniffle.

“Are you saying I _should_ have just killed her?” Undyne demands.

Ellie ruffles her feathers and takes a breath before continuing, returning to the forcefully calm facade. “I’m saying,” she states, tired and drawn, “That you should have chosen what you knew was right, rather than what you thought was necessary.”

Undyne ties off the second layer of bandaging perhaps a bit more roughly than she intended. You’re jolted to the side, and your eyes start to water even as they unfocus further. At this point, you don’t want to even follow along anymore.

You think of cold nights in busy cities, of sitting out on the fire escape in your underwear with your face turned upward to the sky and a mug of hot cocoa in your hands, with rough metal digging it’s evenly spaced circles into the skin of your thighs and the smell of car exhaust in the air. You think of watching people down on the streets below, the telltale glow of a cigarette in the distance down the street, shifting your gaze from the street to the sky and always, always feeling somewhere in between.

You think of two AM texts and three AM phone calls to Dawn, and the way she would always answer no matter how late it was, sleepy voiced or just as awake as you were. You think of how she would sometimes leave the call going so you could listen to her breathing even as she fell back asleep, and the way it helped you feel a little less alone on the worse nights. You think of your latest shitty apartment, and of laying down on the sinfully uncomfortable couch with your phone hooked under your ear until exhaustion and the comforting sound of Dawn’s breathing finally overrode the lump digging into your ribs.

You think of sitting out on the front stoop of that place you've finally admitted is _home_ , with all of the myriad emotions that come with it. You think of looking out over the snowy night toward the dimly glittering Christmas tree, the soft and almost magical light that was radiating from it. You think of the comforting and persistent warmth of Sans sitting next to you, of hours of talking about everything and nothing at all.

You think of satin-soft bunny ears dropping heavily onto your head as you’re pulled into a slender, furry shoulder. You think of Sidney’s lithe, delicately lightweight form snuggled up against you, humming soft reassurances and gleefully whispering that she was going to keep you forever. You think of padded paws smoothing down your hair, patting your cheeks, pushing glasses of alcohol your way when you need to forget.

You think of Ellie, sitting compact and warm on your shoulder, carding her beak through the hair above your ear and crooning soft notes of understanding. You think of trust, and those you give it to, and you think of feeling safe in a world that has never felt safe to you.

You think of Toriel, her hands alight and her eyes bright with unshed tears, and the way she trembled in your arms. You think of Papyrus, flinging bone attacks your way, and the nagging voice in the back of your head that worried how you would stand yourself if you somehow hurt him. You think of Undyne hurling spears at you, of Kid looking up at you like something to be feared, of Ellie crying over your prone and broken form whispering that you looked like you were dead.

You think of seeing Flowey curled up under an echo flower. You think about his grimace of distaste -- you think of the feeling of chill air against your skin, of silent woods around you, of a guarded smile and a nonchalant hum of a “personal experiment”, of searing pain in your chest and then nothing.

You think of nothing for a long, long time.

Undyne pulls your bloody bra and shirt back on over the bandaging, the shreds of your jacket being discarded to the side, and grabs your phone, texting Sans while under Ellie’s watchful eye. Then she stands, pulling her gauntlets and helmet back on, turning and leaving without a further word.

Ellie nestles down on your uninjured shoulder, and Sans appears a few seconds later with that same surge of magic (you shiver, and you’re sure he notices). You blink owlishly and lift your hand to take his when he reaches down to you, letting him pull you up and standing almost on autopilot. Your knee no longer hurts. You can stand on your own.

He tugs off his own jacket and wraps it around you. You zip it up to hide the bloody mess; no sense in causing undue alarm.

You don’t speak, don’t even look at him. You just pull out the list of items you need from the MTT Resort in the Core, hold it out to him, and then hold out your hand. He looks at you for a long few seconds, without a word, his expression blank, before he takes your hand--

Magic courses through you again, and you shudder, but Waterfall falls away from around you, and you close your eyes and refuse to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Select>Save.Point>Menu>File."WhatMakesAPersonBrave"  
> Attribute>Bravery  
> File>Save
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Save_Failed


	33. Regrets and Realizations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm working tomorrow when I would normally post so here have the chapter a day early instead. :3

You go straight into the MTT Hotel, leaving Sans outside and asking Ellie to stay with him; you need the time away from them both to not have to think. You make a beeline for the restaurant that the signs point to, and hand the note from Grillby to the fidgety cat monster behind the counter. The air smells like catnip, and smoke, and for a few seconds you almost miss the smell of weed. You don’t smoke, but the cat monster takes one look at you and offers his still-lit cigarette, from whence the smell is wafting, and you take it without hesitation.

“You would  _ not _ believe the day I’ve had.” you smile mechanically as you take a long inhale. It burns your throat and you wheeze a couple of times. Your voice doesn’t sound like your own anymore. It’s your Retail Tone, the falsely cheerful and unfettered one, the one that thinly disguises a wish to sleep and never wake up.

“I c’n tell,” he nods, sagely, the oh-so-familiar ‘this job sucks and I can relate’ expression on his face. “Go ahead an’ cough, buddy, first drag’s the worst.”

With the unspoken confirmation that you have a sympathetic companion at the moment, you hunch over yourself and let the smoke burn your windpipe, your chest contracting a few times until you give two short hacking coughs and can breathe again, feeling your muscles start to relax. You hold the cigarette out to him again, but he waves a hand in dismissal.

“You need that more’n I do, bud, n’I got more.” he offers a sardonic grin, “Besides, I’m not s’posed to be smokin’ while on the clock anyway.”

You take another drag, breathing out the sharp scented smoke without a word in response. He busies himself behind the counter, gathering the items on your list with a lazy sort of nonchalance, the familiar stance of someone who was doing their job only because they had to.

The tightness in your chest is starting to loosen with the haze of the smoke, and you feel the tension slipping free from your limbs. You rest your chin on your palm, the cigarette burning between two fingers, and cough a few more times as the drags get easier to handle.

“Secret’s safe with me. You smoke a lot?” you ask, more out of perceived necessity than any actual desire to converse. He gives a soft grunt in affirmation, seeming to sense that you’re being more polite than anything else. Maybe he recognizes your Retail Voice.

“Mhm. Shit habit, but s’the only way to make this job bearable.” he mutters, stacking items on the counter. You recognize a few from the list. “Mettaton is the  _ best boss ever _ .”

You wince sympathetically at his tone. You know  _ that _ feeling, you’ve had managers you’ve had to keep yourself from strangling. “Been there before.” you offer around a particularly strong, stinging exhale.

“Grillby okay?” he asks, and you nod in response to both versions of that question. He nods back, smiling a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes, and pushes the things you need across the counter toward you. “Good. See you around?”

You take one last drag, pulling the fire halfway up the remains of the cigarette, before snuffing it out on the ashtray sitting at the end of the counter. “Maybe.” you look down, gathering everything. “I dunno yet.”

He offers his paw to you to shake. “It’d be nice to talk again. Nice to have someone who understands, y’know?”

“I’d say it gets better, but terrible jobs really don’t.” you swing your bag back up onto your good shoulder and shake his paw once, “Do what you gotta to get through each day, man.”

“Same to you, buddo. If you swing around again, most folks call me Burgerpants now. But, uh… my actual name’s Felix, if you care.” he pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and bites down on another one, pulling it out with his teeth and flicking a lighter with the other hand. 

“I’ll keep that in mind, then.” you nod, though your smile feels utterly forced.

You leave him behind to his smoke. He makes no effort to acknowledge your leaving.

When you make the jump back to Snowdin with Sans, you almost manage to stifle the body-wide shudder at the magic this time. Sans lets go of your hand the second you’re both where you’re going, and you open your eyes to the interior of the skeleton brothers’ house. He snags your bag from off of your uninjured shoulder, and you blink and he’s gone again, going to drop off the supplies to Grillby so you don’t have to.

You let yourself sit down on the couch, and fold your hands in your lap, sitting in the late afternoon shadows and staring at a spot where two zig-zags connect without focusing on it. Ellie snuggles down between your cheek and your good shoulder, and her feathers tickle against your skin.

“Do you want me here?” she asks softly.

You don’t answer for a long moment, still staring-without-seeing at that portion of carpet. “I don’t know.” you finally murmur, your voice soft and fragile in a way that you’ve never heard it before. “I… I’m sorry, Ellie Bean, I…”

“It’s okay,” she preens a bit of hair behind your ear, before hopping off of your shoulder and fluttering into a hover. “I’ll be here when you want me.”

She flies up into the rafters of the house and makes herself scarce, and you return to staring at the carpet, breathing slow and quiet, the ache in your soul pulsing with every heartbeat. 

Sans re-enters through the door nearly half an hour later with a bag from the shop in his hands and your bag still slung over his shoulder. He hesitates for a few seconds at the door, but then puts your bag down by the side of the couch and moves to the kitchen with the other. The sound of him quietly attending to all of the usual household chores, the things you’ve been doing for three weeks by this point, fills the unnatural silence in the house with muffled, comforting sound, and you hear the familiar sound of water being ran into the kettle.

He ducks out a few minutes later with a mug of steaming golden flower tea, just the way you always make it, and holds it out to you. You take it without meeting his gaze, and he retreats to the kitchen again without needing to be asked.

The lights are dimmed and the curtains are drawn, but the steam floating from your tea still seems to glow with an ethereal gleam in the darkness. You don’t take a sip; you simply cradle it between your hands and watch the steam dance and dissipate.

The sounds of Sans pulling together something simple for dinner gives you something to semi-focus on. When he comes out again, it’s with two plates of leftover stirfry floating behind him and his phone in his hand, a tiredness in his eyes that you haven’t seen since he admitted he was scared of you.

“paps won’t be home tonight.” he murmurs as he takes a seat a good half a foot away from you on the couch, summoning up the magic coffee table again and putting the plates on it. “said something about talking to undyne about... all this.”

He doesn’t look your way (you’re glad),  but he does shift his hand over into neutral territory between you. You slowly slip one of your own hands free and move it over, just enough to let the side of your pinky brush against his. He shifts his pinky to press a bit against yours, a gentle pressure reaffirming that he’s there, but nothing more than what you’ve already done.

You finally lift the cup and take a sip, letting out a trembling breath and leaning over until your shoulder rests against his. You still don’t look at him, and he doesn’t look your way, just twists his hand over until his pinky finger is draped lightly over yours.

“I’m not okay.” you mumble, your tone tired and quiet and so, so small.

“i know,” he murmurs back. His finger twitches against your hand, like he’s got to physically restrain himself from squeezing your hand and not letting go.

You swallow heavily, shivering against his shoulder.

“are you afraid of me?” he asks, his own voice having a soft, fragile sort of note to it.

“I’m… afraid,” you admit to the carpet. His pinky twitches again, and you take another sip of tea to soothe your nerves before continuing. “...but… I… I don’t wanna be.”

“but you are.” he looks down at his lap, his mouth twisting into a pained grimace. “i… don’t blame you.”

“Not of you,” you close your eyes, the admission feeling like a heavy weight on your tongue, like a poison in your veins. “I’ve been afraid of everything for as long as I can remember, but… I’m not afraid of  _ you _ .”

“but…” he finally chances a glance your way.

“I think I’m afraid of magic.” you laugh, weakly, because it’s so  _ stupid _ , you’re surrounded by magic and now you’re afraid of it and you’re even more afraid of everything around you, now. “I think… I think it finally registered just… just how  _ powerless _ I am down here, comparatively.”

You think of how powerful Sans is, and how much magic he can afford to throw around when he really lets loose. You think of a small child making themselves smaller. You think of quickly stammered words, pushed out before they could be rethought,  _ Does Sans hate me? _ You briefly wonder if they had ever been on the receiving end of that immense tidal wave of magic. You wonder how you’re going to answer when they appear the next time you fall asleep, when they ask if you want to go back. If you want to make all of this into the echoes of a bad dream.

“i…” he trails off, still looking your way, his eyes wide and lost and as confused as you are.

“You kept me alive.” you say, because  _ you stopped me from dying  _ doesn’t ring right for the emotions you’re feeling for him. “I’m not afraid of  _ you. _ ”

_ I’m afraid that you could control me like a puppet. _

_ I’m afraid that you could just as easily stop my lungs as you kept them breathing. _

_ I’m not afraid that you  _ **_would_ ** _ do it. Just that the possibility is there. _

_ And I’m afraid that there are others down here with that kind of power who wouldn’t hesitate to use it. _

He finally shifts his hand to wrap around yours, and you squeeze it like a lifeline. 

You breathe, and you soak in the warmth he’s putting off like a furnace, and eventually you let him coax you into eating something. He sits with you long into the night, until he finally reluctantly pulls away around midnight, pressing his forehead to yours for a few seconds before stealing away up the stairs and to his room to sleep.

You don’t sleep, but you can’t bring yourself to use your usual insomnia-coping methods. You lay down on your side and stare into the darkness around you, listening to the sounds of the house creaking in the wind.

* * *

It’s two days until Halloween when the light rises over the next morning, when you drag yourself off of the couch and over to the bathroom to get washed up. You spend a few minutes gently prodding at the already-scabbing flesh on your shoulder and sponging it off carefully in the shower, before climbing back out again and re-wrapping it with the banged up first aid kit under the sink. It looks like it was just recently restocked, and you wonder if this was what was in that bag from the store that Sans had brought home.

There’s a blizzard brewing over Snowdin today. You stare out the window at the swirling snow with your usual morning mug of tea, well before your phone can chirp out its obnoxiously cheerful seven AM alarm. You don’t know what makes you realize that you’re not going to work today. It’s not anything that registers consciously, but instead a quiet realization in the pit of your stomach. You sip at your tea and turn off your phone alarm.

The worst part about all of this, you think, is knowing how little time it will take before everyone in Snowdin knows that you’re a human. Even if Kid doesn’t say it outright, the simple fact that Undyne had been attacking you… enough to the point where you became injured… that would be an indicator in and of itself. You finish off your mug and carry it to the kitchen, placing it in the sink and laying back down on the couch again. You close your eyes -- not to sleep, but to wait.

You hear Sans shuffle down the stairs after about an hour of lingering in your own thoughts, at roughly 7:40, and you hear him pause at the bottom when he sees you still curled up on the couch. There’s a moment where you feel his gaze on your back, but you remain with your face turned toward the cushions and your heart in your throat.

He steps over to just behind you and gently presses his hand to the top of your head, barely enough to shift your hair, and if you had been asleep then you doubt it would have even woken you up. You press your eyes tighter shut and reach up with one hand to press your hand against his without otherwise moving.

For a moment, both of you are still, before he squeezes at your fingers. “i can stop by grillby’s, if you want.” he says softly, “let him know. then… we can make it a day in. the weather’s getting pretty bad. it’s probably a good idea to stay in.”

You don't answer verbally, but squeeze his fingers and fractionally nod your head. He cards his fingertips lightly through the long hair at the top of your head, and then pulls his hand away.

“i’ll be back soon, then,” he murmurs, straightening the fall of his jacket on his shoulders before the world pulses with magic (you bite down on a flinch, keeping your reaction to a very controlled tightening of your curl) and you know that he’s gone, for now.

Ellie flutters down from the rafters and lands on top of the couch near you. “I’m… gonna be gone, for today.” she announces, softly. “There’s things I really should check on in the Capitol, after everything that happened yesterday, and with the blizzard brewing… I’ve gotta get gone before it gets bad, y’know?”

You don't answer her. You don't even open your eyes.

She waits a moment before sighing softly, hopping down to your shoulder and balancing herself expertly while carding her break through your hair. The familiar comfort gesture makes a minimal amount of tension slip free from your muscles.

“You can always talk to me.” She says softly, “Or Sans, or Papyrus, or Sidney or even Alphys, okay? If you want alone time then you've got it, but… just know, you're not  _ alone _ .” there’s a few seconds where she lets that sink in, before she hops up and flutters away again, over to the door. She does a short divebomb to push the handle down, letting it swing open, and then flits outside. You don’t look around, but you hear it click closed again behind her.

The house is silent around you. You curl tighter in on yourself and try to convince yourself to get up, or at least to poke at the ‘elephant in the room’ in the back of your mind. It’s… surreal, knowing that there’s a section of your thoughts that you just… can’t acknowledge. It’s there, and you even have some idea of what those cordoned off thoughts entail, you know they exist and that you’ve already thought them even if you haven’t given them the freedom to  _ echo _ in your head. Eventually, you know, you’re going to have to face them down head on.

_You know,_ a voice whispers in the back of your mind, somewhere in the nebulous range of ‘to the left’ of the blocked off part, startling you. _Staying awake to try and avoid us isn’t going to do anything but hurt you, in the long run._

It’s soft, with a refined sense of eloquence coloring the words, each syllable enunciated with intensely purposeful elocution. The voice pauses every so often, as though choosing their words, and you feel a strong, sudden sense of deja vu.

_ Oh, _ you think, as a flickery memory of a young preteen with the promise of thin, elegant features and a broken-glass smile forms in the back of your mind. Frisk’s... friend? The one that you had never gotten a name for.  _ You. _

You open your eyes, staring at the uneven fabric covering the couch, at the places where the strings have snagged and bunched up. You think, maybe, that you must have drifted a bit too close to sleep. That or perhaps they were going to drag you under. Either way, it wasn’t something you wanted -- you… couldn’t be sure what you would answer, if they asked you whether or not you wanted to go back.

_ Yes, me, _ the kid murmurs again, sounding amused, and you feel an impending sense of doom.  _ Frisk handled you last. It’s my turn. And I don’t care for being kept waiting. So if you’re not going to be sensible and sleep, which handles both the necessary talk with one of us, and helps  _ **_you_ ** _ , by the by, with your healing, then I’ll have to play the bad-cop and get you myself. _

_ Please don’t. _ You think back, and there’s a poignant pause, as though they’ve been caught off guard by your request.  _ I’m… I’m sorry, but… I can’t trust the answer I’ll give, right now. _

_ Would you respond yes? _ They ask, after a moment of silence, and you think you must be imagining the faint accommodating tone in their voice.  _ A full-stop, definite, ‘this-is-what-I-want’ yes? _

You push your hands into the tangles of your hair and curl tighter, pulling until pain starts at your scalp.  _ I don’t… I wouldn’t… not… as certain as that, but… _

_ Then we can’t go back anyway. _ There’s an odd note of aggrieved amusement.  _ You’re allowed to be uncertain about your answers, you know. An ‘I don’t know’ is  _ **_not_ ** _ the equivalent of a yes. And trying not to sleep until you can convince  _ **_yourself_ ** _ that you can say ‘no’ with no hesitation, as I said, does nothing but hurt you, and irritate me. _

You're surprised at how much tension falls from your shoulders when you hear that. They continue without waiting for a response from you.

_ I might be manipulative, and critical and even a little sadistic, and I'm really bad at the whole ‘being considerate of other people’ thing, but even if I don't care about  _ **_you_ ** _ , I do care about  _ **_Frisk_ ** _. So despite the fact that I would gladly leave you down there without this choice, and leave you to be the seventh soul so Frisk doesn't have to, your decision does actually hold weight. I'd rather you sleep and talk it out with  _ **_me_ ** _ more than do it with Frisk, because the twerp would try to convince you to say yes.  _ **_I_ ** _ don't actually _ **_care_ ** _. So are you going to sleep or do I have to drag you under? _

The door opens again before you can answer, and you peek up and out to see Sans shaking snow off of his jacket before he enters. The wind is picking up strength outside, starting to sound rather ominous like a howl and you can already see the snow starting to fall in messy sheets. There’s a brief sense of distaste and annoyance in the back of your mind, before the flickering presence of the child disappears to your perception.

Sans does a double take when he sees you, a burst of nervous magic sparking off of him, just after their sense disappears, and for a second you think he actually looks  _ startled _ before he blinks and shakes his head. He walks over to you, trailing slush in his slippers (a part of you feels a bit miffed, but it’s too much effort to bring that part to the fore), and settles on the part of the couch you haven’t taken up. He’s near, but not touching you.

You twist yourself and push to sit up, curling up a bit and inching over until you’re-- not touching him, not yet, he’s clearly still a bit magically charged and (god it’s stupid) you’re not… it’s hard. You want to curl up against him and feel safe again but what are you supposed to do when the sense you get of him is prompting a part of your mind to scream in irrational terror?

_ Make it rational? _ Your Professional Image section offers drily, and you have the feeling like they’re holding your Irrational and Rational parts away from each other while the two of them screech and try to claw each other’s eyes out.

“okay?” he asks, without moving any further into your bubble than you’ve already placed him. You think he must really be controlling himself right now. It isn’t fair, you feel terrible that you can’t just focus and make yourself okay again.

“I’m trying.” you mumble, sneaking another glance at him.

“i know.” he slowly and carefully shifts his hand into neutral territory again, just like he did the night before, and you swallow heavily before reaching over to take it. Little steps. He cares so much about you, he’s trying so hard to show it in a way that won’t freak you out, and... 

\-- _ fire in a blizzard, starlight under ocean _ \--

... _ fuck _ . It’s official. You have to admit it to yourself.

 

You love him.


	34. Emotionally Compromising Conversations in Emotionally Compromising Positions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An admission, a kiss, and a (mis)understanding.

You’re not sure how, but one second you’re trembling and too afraid to do much more than holding his hand, and the next you’re practically burrowing into his side. He lets out a startled little grunt, but adjusts quickly, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and steadying himself with the other arm on the arm of the couch.

“wh-whoa, okay, hey, it’s…” he trails off when you sniffle, still shaking.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I’m like this, I’m  _ useless _ …”

“you’re  _ not _ .” the sharp tone of voice startles you, and you pull back half an inch to blink up at him, feeling rather like all of the breath had been pushed out of you. He shifts his weight until you’re resting more on his chest than into his side, bracing his back against the arm of the couch and wrapping his other arm around you into a big bear hug. “you’re not…” he says again, his voice softening, as he wraps himself around you. “you’re not useless. you’re dealing with some… really intense shit right now. that’s not useless.” he lets out a short, strained laugh, “by the stars, i watched you pop your leg back into place! and then walk on it! because you felt like you had something you had to do. that’s… it’s ridiculous, how capable you are when you set your mind to things, alright? that kind of determination is  _ scary _ .”

The unusual note is there, again, on the word  _ determination _ . It’s odd, it’s almost like the tone you associate with “Official Titles and Capitalized Pronouns”, like he isn’t saying  _ determination…  _ but rather  _ Determination. _

“you’re incredible.” he murmurs, bringing a hand up to tug lightly at the fringes of your bangs. “and whatever i have to do to help you believe it, i’ll do.”

You press your face into his chest again, hiding your expression and praying without any kind of hope that your blush (because you  _ know _ you’re blushing) is confined to your cheeks. He shifts a bit more to accommodate you, bringing his hand up to brush it through your hair.

“please believe me,” he pauses his hand’s progress, cradling the side of your head delicately, like you’re a fragile glass figurine. “you’re… really important to me.”

You mumble into the soft fabric of his jacket, muffling yourself as you whine something along the lines of ‘not fair’ and ‘don’t deserve you’. He lets out another low rumble of a laugh, the sound shaking through him and through you as he goes back to brushing his fingers through your hair.

“we can stay like this for however long you want,” he smiles softly down toward you, “but i do think eventually we should get food.”

“Not yet.” you grump into his chest, sighing, “You’re warm. Why are you always so warm? You don’t have skin. You don’t have blood. There’s no…” you make a vague gesture with your hand before returning it to its spot semi-pinned underneath him in the hug. “Gross mushy stuff to carry heat.”

He tweaks one segment of your bangs, still grinning, “one of the nicer things about magic,” he hums, and for a moment you go still. He continues smoothing your hair down, brushing it out of your face, his fingers lingering against your skin as his smile falters a little bit, “i know, it’s… still a lot, but it does have its perks.”

His hand drifts under your bangs, and you react automatically, ducking your head down. He flinches back immediately, radiating concern, “did i hurt you?”

“N-no-- no,” you stammer, making yourself look up again and grimacing, biting at your lip, “It’s… a long story, and an automatic reflex.” You take a breath, before carefully untangling one of your hands and pushing your bangs out of the way, revealing (you’re certain) the long, jagged scar at your hairline. His eyes go wide. “It looks worse than it is,” you quickly add, “Long healed, it just… I don't like it being touched. Brings up unhappy memories.” You turn your gaze down and away from him, toward the floor, pink in the cheeks.

“what kind of unhappy?” he asks, almost warily, “if you wanna tell me.”

“...” You rest your chin on his collarbone, cushioned by the fluffy fringe of his jacket, your features drooping tiredly. You've been awake way too long to be thinking about these sorts of things, your mental filter is non-existent and it feels like reopening an old wound. “Like… first love lost unhappy.” You finally admit. It had taken you a long time to let yourself realize what others had seen at first glance. The reason why you had been invited to Michele's funeral without question, despite having only known her for a few months.

Thin fingered hands trembling against your own, while your voices stayed steady. The sense of wonder. The quiet, comfortable warmth that settled in your chest whenever she smiled at you. 

Sans’ eyes soften as well, “oh.” he wraps his arms around you again, an all encompassing sort of hug that pulls you close and warm and safe.

“Her name was Michele.” you offer, when there’s an uncertain pause.

“was it a break-up, or…?”

“She died.” You feel your eyes burning, but firmly tell yourself that it's okay, you're safe with him, and it's been almost a decade. “Nothing on purpose, just… a car accident.” It doesn't matter that you know a part of you died with her, it doesn't matter that you'll never fully get over her. You know that she’s in a better place. 

His eyes focus on your face, the little lights in them going small for a few seconds before a quietly concerned and inquisitive look forms on his face. “but if it wasn't a fight, then how…?” he nods toward the scar. 

“It… really messed me up for a long time after it.” You pull your lips into the mockery of a smile. “I stopped sleeping for a while. Went completely nonverbal. Would've stopped eating if I wasn't being monitored.” You duck your face into the fringe again, sighing. “Then I… started passing out. No warning, no lead up, just… poof. Asleep. Stress induced narcolepsy. At one point I passed out in the middle of class-- just, keeled over to the side, apparently. Slammed my head against the adjacent desk.”

His arms tighten briefly around your midsection. You cuddle down further into his chest and continue. “Woke up with my head all bandaged up and with no idea what happened. It was… formative.”

“i can imagine,” he starts, going back to gently carding his hands through your hair. “this girl must have been someone awfully special.”

You’re not sure what makes you relax more, the unquestioning nature of his acceptance or the gentle massage of his fingers against your scalp. 

(You’ve gotten more than your fair share of odd looks, especially when out with Dawn; affectionate friendships had tended to be… assumed upon, back then, and it really didn’t help that both of you were in fact capable of being interested in girls, apparently.) 

“Thing is… I didn’t realize I… y’know, loved her  _ like that _ … until it was way after too late. It took me over a year to really come to terms with it.” you close your eyes and let out a soft, comfortably pleased hum as he continues pressing his fingers into the gentle dips and curves of your neck. The knots in your shoulders are giving away to the way he’s pressing into your muscles, and you think he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing, with his apparent fascination to how they push back. There’s something almost obscenely intimate about this moment, but you can’t bring yourself to find the energy to care that much. 

He’s warm, and your tension is decreasing, and…

“...i… almost don’t want to ask,” he admits into your hair, “don’t wanna ruin the moment, but… what did it…” he’s almost glowing blue with a blush, looking embarrassed and awkward, “feel like? that… that kind of love.”

You fiddle with a loose thread on the back of his jacket, more to give your hands something to do than out of any actual interest in it. Twisting it around the end of your finger makes you think, rather suddenly, of the old red-string-of-fate myth. It’s not exactly fitting, since his jacket is the soft and soothing cornflower blue that you’ve always loved, but the similarity strikes you like a bolt of lightning.

You’re _ talking about your first love _ … with the only person  _ since _ then that you can honestly say you love in a way that might not be entirely platonic.

_ Are you on caffeine or something? _ You ask your Hormones without any heat.  _ Met him. Three weeks. Ago. _

_ Hey, no.  _ Hormones whisper back,  _ I’m responsible for the physical attraction. The emotional bullshit is all you. S’part of the reason it took you so damn long to realize with Michele, you know.  _ There’s a note of smugness to their tone,  _ You weren’t quite as aware of me. _

Thinking about it, though, you’re just… honestly kind of nervous. How can you explain what it felt like? Would it implicate you right now? What if--

_ No, _ You decide,  _ Now is not the time for anxiety or what ifs. _

_ Michele deserves honesty and courage. _

“It was like breathing.” you reminisce, softly, into his jacket, “It was easy, the most natural thing ever, but so, so, so integral that going without it felt a little bit like dying. It was also like… not being afraid of something, for once. Like being safe, and warm, and not alone. Seeing her smile made me happy. Hearing her laugh made me want to laugh too. And in the end, even when we were in a big group of people… I was always aware of where she was, and what she was doing, and… It felt like being allowed to want something, and being allowed to reach for it.”

It felt like  _ home _ .

He feels like home.

“It was different from any kind of feeling I’d ever had before.” You make yourself continue, and he goes back to playing with your hair, twisting curls of it around his fingers and brushing it out of your face. “It was… similar to…”  _ this. It  _ **_was_ ** _ this. _ “...to letting myself… realize I’d found home.”

He stills, and you can feel the intensity of his gaze, even as you sneak a glance up to look at his face. He has that lighthouse-in-a-storm look, meeting your eyes with something bittersweet and fragile and hopeful.

“It was finding someone who could be my person.” you finish faintly, unable to tear your eyes away from his, extremely aware of the fact that you’re lying practically on top of him and his hands are in your hair and his face is so close to yours…

_ Be brave right now _ .

_ Be  _ **_brave_ ** _ right now. Holy shit. _

_ Why am I not being brave? Oh god. Oh god. He’s  _ **_right there_ ** _. It would be easy. It… _

“Wow, uh.” your voice has gone pitchy, like someone else is talking for you, and you know that you’re blushing from the tips of your ears to the tips of your toes. “That got-- really personal, haha, I’m sorry, I just went on and on for a second there, I--”

You break off with a faint squeak when his hands shift from your hair, cradling your face like you’re a precious jewel and keeping your eyes on his, even when your heart is jackhammering in your chest and you feel the undeniable waves of anxious terror threatening to pull you under. His hands are so warm against your cheeks, and he’s almost thrumming with sparks of something wild and uncontrollable. 

It courses along every inch of you that’s in contact with him, and tingles against your lips. A part of you feels like a record skipping backward into the last few seconds, not quite capable of registering--

You see his eyes close.

It had always fascinated you, to an extent, watching the way his face could move, despite looking and feeling like solid bone; the way his expression could change, the differences in the shapes of his eye sockets, the way his nasal cavity could quirk when he had a particularly smug grin on his face, and especially the different shapes of his mouth. You’d seen him make the oddest shapes with his teeth, seen brief glances of sharpened incisors, at least fifteen different variations on the same fixed grin, and the sleepy smile he only seemed to let show when he was really, truly happy.

There’s magic tingling against your lips. 

Delicately smooth carpal bones brushing against your cheeks, the thrum of something wild and uncontrollable against every inch of you that’s touching him…

...and magic tingling against your lips.

Your soul trembles in your chest, blazing white-hot and overwhelming. The press of his mouth against yours lingers, despite the fact that he’s not really holding you in place, he’s brushing his fingers against your skin like he’s in a trance, featherlight and dreamy.

You can't process. You can't react. You…

You’re frozen, eyes wide, when he pulls back with a soft, distant smile on his face, like waking up from a dream. The feeling of his own mouth pulling away from yours leaves behind the strange, tingly feeling against your lips, and for a moment you’re too afraid to breathe and break the trance.

The clock starts ticking around you again, and all at once you are  _ hyper aware _ of the tidal wave of energy surging just underneath the surface of everything that makes him who he is, the static against your lips. He’s so full of strange and unfathomable  _ magic _ right now and--

His expression clears, and he seems to realize that something’s wrong; you’re still laying there, wide eyed and still, barely breathing and with your mouth hanging slightly open. His fingers twitch slightly against your cheeks and you can’t--

you can’t

help it.

You flinch. You push up, rolling into a sit halfway across the couch in one absurdly fluid motion, pressing a hand to your lips and focusing your eyes on the carpet, on anywhere but him. Your shoulders are tugged up toward your ears and your free arm is wrapped around your torso within seconds.

“i-i... “ he stammers, reaching hesitantly toward you, and you curl away from him, your breathing still shallow and faint, struggling to make your thoughts connect. There’s still magical static clinging to every inch of you and numbing your lips, and--

You need--

You need to process.

You need to  _ think _ .

Because he just--

Oh god.

He  _ kissed you _ . 

You press your hand more firmly against your mouth, trembling and overcharged, and before you can really register what you’re doing, you’re shoving yourself off of the couch and stumbling toward the stairs, throwing yourself up them and barely avoiding falling on your face. Your hand is wrapped around the railing in a death-grip, your knuckles white.

You’re panicking.

You know you’re panicking. And it’s  _ stupid _ . You don’t want to hurt him right now with this and you don’t want him to see you falling apart because  _ he kissed you _ . He kissed you and you can’t-- you can’t-- you can’t  _ comprehend _ it, it doesn’t feel real, and the magic clinging to you is just too much--

Your legs barely want to hold you upright, and you find yourself almost dragging yourself up the stairs with your only good arm, hyperventilating. You don’t think, you  _ can’t _ , you just throw yourself into the open door of Papyrus’ room and all but slam it shut behind you, falling back on it before the overwhelmed squeaking can squeeze through your lips.

You slide down the door and press your hands into the tangled curls in your hair, feeling faint and struggling to breathe. The sound of Sans hurrying up the stairs behind you makes you wheeze, pressing your back more firmly against the door and trying valiantly to tell yourself that it makes a difference, that it can keep him out, that he can’t just  _ teleport in _ while you’re losing your fucking mind.

“i’m sorry!” you hear him stumble to a stop just outside the door, “oh my god, i’m sorry, i didn’t think--”

“No--” It comes out as a faint wail, and you curl closer in on yourself, trying fruitlessly to get yourself under control, “No, Sans-- I-- I’m sorry, I’m--  _ I’m so sorry-- _ ”

“i shouldn’t have done that,” he sounds almost frantic, “i overstepped, i’m--”

“This isn’t a no.” you sob between wheezed breaths, “Please don’t take it as a no, I just-- can’t-- I need to think-- I need-- I--”

You hear him lean against the other side of the door and slide down, until he’s directly behind you, and hear the dull  _ thud _ of the back of his skull hitting the door. “h-hey… breathe, okay? bad timing.  _ really _ bad timing. let’s just… let’s focus on this, okay? i’ll-- i’ll stay out here, but you’ve gotta breathe.” You let out a faint wheeze in response. “nice and slow. in…”

You inhale, shaking from head to toe, and hold it while waiting for his direction.

“and out…”

A slow, forcefully controlled exhale.

He continues prompting you, swallowing down his obvious guilty disappointment for the next couple of minutes, helping you claw your way back down. Once you’re breathing almost normally again, and your heart has slowed down about as much as the adrenaline will allow, you let out a weak laugh and tilt your own head back against the door.

“i’m sorry,” he mutters again from the other side.

“No.” you shake your head, “Don’t be, it’s not your fault, I… I just…” You push your hands through your hair, grimacing at the oily, sweaty mess that it’s become. “I guess… I didn’t think…” 

God, how do you put this? 

“I didn’t know how to react, and…” you tremble a bit more, but force yourself to take a deep breath before continuing, “...it freaked me out. I… didn’t mean to, but I did.”

“it  _ was _ overstepping, wasn’t it?” he asks, and you can hear the way he’s beating himself up over it. “i didn’t think about it, and i really should’ve. i should’ve at least-- i dunno,  _ asked _ ? heh…” the bitter undertone in the fake laugh makes your heart hurt.

“I…” you swallow, “Sans. I.” you take another breath, “This… this isn’t a  _ no _ , I really do mean that.”

“...but is it a yes?” there’s so much bittersweet hope in his voice. You know what he’s asking. You also…

Ugh.

You know what you  _ want _ to answer, but you also know what your answer actually has to be.

“...it’s an ‘I don’t know’, right now.” you swallow, “I… need time, alright? So much has happened, yesterday and today, and I’m just… not sure I can, y’know, deal with  _ all of this _ at once.” He doesn’t answer immediately, and you both sit in relative silence for a moment before you finally speak up again. “I… do  _ want _ it to be a yes, though.”

“really?” he asks, and you hope that you’re not imagining the faintest sound of a genuine smile in his tone. “you mean it?”

“I want to.” you twist your own mouth into a weak grin as well, “I want to say yes. I just need time. I promise.”

There’s another moment of silence, before he lets out another weak laugh, “...i don’t make promises… but, in this case, i’ll wait however long you need, gumdrop. you have my word.”


	35. LITERALLY Nothing But Hurt/Comfort and Fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HEY NERDS GUESS WHO'S GONNA BE ON A PLANE MOST OF TOMORROW
> 
> It's me. It's the Tini. Enjoy your chapter you blessed blessed skeleton lovers.

It takes almost an hour before you can be coaxed out of Papyrus’ room, and when you are finally drawn back out, Sans keeps an almost imperceptible distance. He still takes your hand, still hugs you, but there's a definite line in the snow that he's respecting and you're grateful. It almost feels like that entire loss of control over the situation didn't happen, but at the same time… you both know it did, and there's definitely  _ something  _ there, now. 

He helps you ease your way back down the stairs and offers to heat up some of Paps’ latest attempts at spaghetti, since they're actually edible and verging on good, with the way he's been learning how  _ you _ cook. You pretend to grump about having pasta for breakfast and poke at his side, gently wheedling at him that you've yet to have a quiche that he's made. He goes blue in the face with a faint, almost goofy grin, and you feel your own cheeks heat up despite the exchange being fairly standard.

Oh. Oh, this is how it’s going to be now, huh.

...Can you reload? Like… is it possible to  _ not _ ? Do this?

Oh wait. Sans remembers reloads. It wouldn't matter anyway.

You settle on the couch again, bringing a hand up to steady your injured shoulder when you stretch it. The bandages move much more easily than your tattered jacket did. It still aches, a dull throbbing ache that seems to have gotten worse due to your freak out, deep set into your tense muscles. 

You circle your arm in its socket a few times while keeping the spot over the injury compressed, biting your lip to hold in the small pained sounds that want to escape. The sad part is, you’re pretty sure this isn’t even as bad as you’ve experienced before.

The sounds of the storm outside are still going strong, and you take a few moments to peer out the window over the back of the couch, twisted at the waist and resting your chin on your uninjured arm. You can’t even see the Christmas tree… you hope that Ellie is smart enough to stay away from Snowdin until the storm passes.

Granted, you met her with a mild concussion for flying at top speed through the Ruins, so maybe it’s better to hope that she just stays  _ busy _ until the storm passes, and the situation never arises. You wouldn’t want her to get hurt, especially not in a way that can be avoided. 

You also hope that Kid is home safe right now. 

The thought brings another twinge of pain to your shoulder, and you wince down into your arm, pressing your hand to it again automatically. You still remember how he looked, when he asked you if you were human. You still remember how heartbreaking it was.

You’re… kind of dreading what might happen when you see him again. What if he’s still upset that you’re a human? That you were  _ lying _ to everyone, hiding that fact?

What would happen if the folks of Snowdin weren’t willing to put up with a human in their midst?

What if... what if Grillby didn’t want a human working for him?

You're startled out of your gloomy thoughts by the sound of something being set on the bone coffee table, and lift your head up out of your arm to turn and see Sans sitting down with a second steaming mug of tea. The familiar citrus scent is just a little bit off from when you make it, but it honestly smells so good that you decide you really need to ask him what he did differently.

“c’mon,” he says, seeming to completely ignore your clear momentary weakness even as you turn around to sit properly again. “i bet the t.v. still works, we can watch a terrible mettaton flick to pass the time. and when the quiche is ready then you can make fun of my equally terrible cooking.”

“I’m sure your quiche will be fine,” you lean forward to scoop up your mug, taking a slow and indulgent sip. He takes a sip of his own and lets out a faint, almost displeased murmur of disappointment, but you’re too busy wondering what the  _ literal hell _ he did differently, because this tea is--

“s’not as good as yours,” he announces, almost embarrassed, “i think i missed a step.”

“Are you  _ joking _ ? This is way better than when I make it.” you turn to glance at him, and see him blink in surprise, before offering a sheepish grin. He raises one hand to scratch a finger along the outer edge of his eye socket, turning away as though to hide the suddenly flustered expression.

“if you say so, i guess.” he shrugs, before setting his mug down and leaning back against the arm of the couch, tucking his legs up into the center. You set your own mug beside his and scoop the remote out from between the cushions, tugging the quilt down from the top of the couch and cuddling down into it on your side of the couch. There are a few playful kicks, fighting for territory in the center of the couch, but he seems to accept the fact that you’re angling yourself away from him for now.

You flip channels in silence for a few moments. The picture is a little staticky, but otherwise intact, and you settle on a sci-fi Mettaton drama that you somehow haven’t seen before.

“i really am sorry.” he hums a few minutes later, making you glance up and over at him, “y’know. about the kiss. next time-- i, i mean, if there is a next time, of course, i’m not trying to--”

You lightly kick at one of his feet and startle him into stopping mid thought. “You're forgiven already, bonehead.” You smile, making the familiar tease into an affectionate. “I'm not mad about it.”

“but i-- it prompted a panic attack, how are you not mad?”

You sigh, “I've panicked over a coffee maker before, Sans.”

He doesn't seem to have a response for that. He arches a brow bone at you and you realize that you pretty much owe him that story now. You sigh and tilt your head back against the couch, baring your neck in faux aggravation.

“Okay, so… I’ve told you how I’ve been basically hopping from city to city for the past four years, right? So like… three and a half years ago, four years, ish, it was one of the first city-jumps I made. First leaving the town I grew up in, that sort of thing.” You raise your hands out of the quilt in a vague gesture toward the surface world above you. “I pretty much owned the clothes on my back, my cell phone, a backpack of work clothes that I had to wash every week to get by, and this wicked old keurig coffee machine that I’d gotten off of eBay-- which is like, an online store type website. Loaded it all up in a car with a gal I met through Craigslist -- another website, for exchanging goods and services -- who was heading out that way anyway.”

“okay…” he nods, to show he’s following.

“Like, this was  _ literally _ all I had. I had enough money to buy my first shitty studio apartment, which is like, a one-bedroom apartment but  _ worse, _ and that was  _ it. _ ” you have to emphasize this last point, because it still kind of amazes you when you look back on it just how remarkably unprepared you really were when you leapt headfirst into everything. You’d gotten a lot better at starting from scratch since then, but that first time? It was a miracle you didn’t starve yourself in the four days you were waiting for your next paycheck to hit so you could actually buy  _ food _ .

“that… sounds rough.” he tilts his head toward you, “so, what happened with the coffee maker?”

“Well, we got to the town I was stopping in,” you curl your lip, faint distaste coloring your features, because ‘town’ had really been an… overly  _ generous _ descriptor. “I had to lug the coffee maker and my backpack of clothes for a few blocks to find the apartment complex, and it was… well, I don’t think the maintenance guy I called ever actually came to fix the shower head in the entire four months I was there, so let’s leave it at that.” Moving your hands to approximate the size of the old clunker of a keurig, you go on, “I’m lugging this big unwieldy coffee maker up three flights of stairs, somehow manage to get my new apartment keys out of my pocket without dropping it, and get it inside. ‘Unpacking’,” you grace the word with actual finger air-quotes, “takes me maybe four minutes, if that, and I’m  _ super _ exhausted from the roadtrip and all.”

“mhm.” he nods again. He’s got a rueful, almost expectant grin on his face, but there’s a softness and empathy in his eyes that makes it hard to keep eye contact without blushing. 

“So I’m like,  _ shit, coffee time _ .” you shrug instead, turning your eyes up toward the ceiling again and folding your hands over your stomach. “I go and plug it in? And the damn thing sparks at the plug and gives this grindy, whining sound. There’s a smell of burning plastic and I immediately pull the plug back out but the damage is done. The fucker short circuited the first time I plugged it in, and I’m just…” you shake your head, still a bit dubious about your reaction back then, but it  _ had _ been roughly half the value of everything you owned at that point. “I dunno, man. It was like my brain short circuited with it.”

“ohh, stars,” he chuckles, a low rattly sound like he’s trying to stifle himself. You really like his laugh. You  _ really _ like his laugh. God, damn it, why is he so cute? Why do you have to be so fucked in the head? Why can’t you just be allowed to relax and enjoy how much you  _ really absurdly like him? _ “i can imagine, that’s terrible. i’m not surprised you’d lose it at that point, that’s just… an entire blizzard of emotions.”

“Mhm.” You nod, feeling your own mouth curl into a soft smile while watching him. The window behind the couch rattles in its supporting wall, the wall itself creaking ominously, with a particularly strong gust of wind. “Speaking of blizzards...” you glance over your shoulder and out the window again, concerned with the vague white blur that is “outside”. "How long do they usually last, here?”

He hums, “usually only an hour or two, but some of the bad ones can last a couple of days. we’re stocked up with supplies, if you’re worried.”

You give a noncommittal sound in response, your gaze still turned outward into the white unknown.  He nudges at your leg with one of his feet, and by the time you look around at him his attention seems to have been snagged.

“whoa.” he mutters, squinting toward your leg, “hang on, that wasn’t there before. are you growing fur?”

You jerk your legs up toward your torso and wrap your arms around them, making an appalled and undignified sound in the back of your throat. “Oh my  _ god, _ they’re not  _ that bad  _ yet!”

Even as you say it, though, the prickly unshaven planes of your legs are pressed against your bare arms, and  _ god _ three weeks unshaven is  _ not _ a good feeling. 

He stifles a snort into one of his hands, managing to look at least vaguely apologetic, and your mock indignation withers away like a water lily in a desert. His foot nudges at your ankle again, barely able to reach across the length of the couch, “hey, wait a sec, i'm sorry. what did i say wrong?”

You grumble into your knees, “I'm not growing fur, it's just been a long while since I've shaved my legs.” You rub your hands against your fuzzy sasquatch legs. “I haven’t been able to find a razor down here that wasn’t rusted all to hell, and I’d rather not take risks like that. That would just lead to bloody legs and tetanus.” Not to mention you had been toting around two-days-unshaved legs when you fell down here in the first place.

“...so, humans… don’t let their fur grow?”

“It’s not  _ fur, _ oh my god, Sans. It’s just unnecessarily thick hair. I’ve got hair on my arms, too, but it’s thin and soft, not coarse and prickly.” 

You sit up and extend one of your arms toward him without needing to be asked as soon as you see the gleam of intrigue in his eyes, and the way he sits up off of the opposite couch arm like an excited toddler hoping for a toy. Smooth carpal bones brush against your wrist, then up toward your elbow, and his eyes are glimmering with uncontained delight as he twists his hand against the grain, inward toward your… radius? (You think it’s the radius -- the ulna is the one that connects to your pinky, if you remember right, so the radial bone connects to the --  _ wait, oh my god, no, not right now,  _ **_focus_ ** _. _ )

His thumb brushes across the undefined line where hair no longer grows as thickly on your inner arm, and you can’t quite hold down the tiny shiver that runs down your spine. “you really are covered.” he murmurs, almost as though to himself, his grin wide and far more genuine than you think you’ve seen it, maybe ever. He’s so  _ interested _ , and looks legitimately pleased with the observations. After a moment, he turns his eyes up to meet yours, the giddy excitement on his face encouraging a small, answering grin to form on your own. He’s such an adorable  _ nerd _ , oh god. “so why’s the hair on your legs so thick then? and for that matter…” he reaches up and tweaks a tuft of hair that’s falling in your eyes, directing it back toward your ear again. “why’s the hair on your head allowed to grow like this?”

“Well, the hair on my head grows a lot faster than…” you have to swallow and clear your throat to fight down the squeaky urge to giggle. “...than anywhere else. I think it’s like, a couple of inches a month on my head versus a couple millimeters a month, on my arms, or a couple centimeters a month, on my legs? The hair on my arms is fine and slow growing, the leg hair is just in that unfortunate range where it grows uncomfortably thick and coarse. It’s not the only place, but it’s the most obvious.”

He’s still giving you that enthusiastic grin, even as he tilts his head. “not the only place?”

“Well, yeah, there’s my armpits, too. Extra yuck, the hair gets all sweaty and gross.” You make a face at him, deliberately refusing to think of the  _ other _ other place, because it's way too early to be thinking anything like that. (You’re not even sure if he --  **_no_ ** _ , brain, stop. _ ) 

You feel much better when he laughs again and settles back against the couch cushions, once he's satisfied with his observations of your human-ness. Despite everything, despite the fact that you have had your life in his hands and know you're not afraid of him, there's still a quivering part of your soul that hesitates, almost entirely, being that close right now.

You pull your arm back and lean back  against your own chosen cushion,  glancing out at the blizzard outside the window again.

“Just us for a while, huh?” you hum, your mouth curling into a quiet, tired line. “Hope Ellie’s gonna be okay…”

“i'm sure she'll be fine.  she's… got a set up in the capital, you know? pretty nice digs, at least, i assume they're great for the avian variety of monster…” he trails off when you don't answer him, and keep your eyes toward the window. “...you're really worried?”

“I  _ met _ her when she was flying around with a mild concussion in the Ruins. Forgive me for worrying that she might be reckless enough to try to fly in a blizzard like this.” You let out a soft puff of air in an attempt to laugh that doesn't quite pan out.

“... it…” he sighs, and you glance over to see an uncertainly small smile on his face, like he's not sure if it's in good taste to talk about what he's about to say, or like he's still trying to comprehend his own emotions enough to present them in a way that won't… overwhelm you. “... it really amazes me, sometimes, how…  _ genuinely _ you seem to care about everyone, down here,” he finally admits. “your soul goes a little brighter whenever you're with ellie, you know? you really seem…  _ happy _ . and it's not even just her, it happens with pap, and tori, and sidney…” there's an even more tentative twist to his grin, “... and,  sometimes with me too… it's just, kinda amazing.”

“... well, I think it's clear that the amazing and genuine ones are all of you.” You smile back at him, “After all, you're the ones I'm happy  _ with. _ ” your voice softens a bit. “I've not had more than one friend at one time before.”

“well, you've got us now,” he nudges at your foot again, prompting another soft puff of a laugh. “we're sticking around as long as we're welcome to.”

You gently push at his foot with your own, still smiling, and feeling a soft, cottony warmth in the depths of your soul. His grin softens further, his eyes drifting for a moment to the center of your breast-bone, before he snaps them up to your face again and looks rather like he’s startled himself, then looks sheepish.

“i-- oh, man, sorry, i--”

“What was it doing?” you wrap your arms around your knees and keep your voice even.

“...sorry.” he says again, shaking his head, “old habits die hard, i guess… it… it was glowing, but not like a full flame, more just like, i dunno…” he reaches up and scratches at the back of his skull, bone against bone, “...like, the light  _ around _ a candle? not the fire itself but the light it gives off.”

You’re quiet for a moment, considering this. You… you  _ died _ , yesterday. Multiple times. And you know that dying has consequences.

Finally, you look up at him, square your shoulders, and decide to just ask.

“Sans,” you say, your voice steady and without a hint of hesitation, “Can you summon my soul out, please?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry (not sorry) for the cliff hanger.


	36. The True Weight of Trust, The True Price of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some answers.

The blizzard is still howling outside. Sans has gone still, on the other end of the couch, and his eyelights have shrunk down to the tiniest possible pinpricks; you don’t even think he’s breathing, he’s so still. He’s just… staring at you, with a look of awed disbelief on his face, somewhere between ‘I really shouldn’t’ and ‘but I really want to.’

He takes a shuddering breath, his eyelights widening back to normal size, and for a brief instant you see him glance at the spot where your soul would appear again, before his eyes are back, locked on yours again.

“are you… sure?” he asks, his voice soft and tentative. “it’s-- ellie told you, yesterday, how big a deal it is, and…”

“Is it a matter of trust?” you tilt your head but keep eye contact, your arms flexing briefly around your knees (your shoulder aches, but you push it down). “Do I have to explicitly say--” you swallow briefly, a short catch in your breath on the words, “--that I trust you not to hurt me?”

“it’s not just a matter of me hurting you, it’s…” he looks down at his hands, folded in his lap and fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. He’s going alarmingly blue in the face, considering how simple your request was. “i mean… it’s a different kind of trust than that.”

Your heart starts hammering in your chest as it occurs to you that this  _ might  _ be a bigger, much more  _ intimate _ deal than you initially thought.

You look down downward toward your own hands, wrapped around your fuzzy legs. You stare for a moment at the battered and calloused fingertips, the myriad of scars dotting your skin, the tiny slashes of lighter skin across your knuckles and the backs of your hands. Worker’s hands. Bitten down fingernails, a couple of burgeoning hangnails. They’re not pretty, by any means, yet they fold so nicely between his hands, your fingers interlace with his like they were meant to go together.

You think. You can still remember your mother sitting you down when you were tiny, and telling you that you had a nasty habit of acting on instinct without thinking things through, and it could get you hurt. You take a moment, and you make yourself breathe, slow, deep breaths, and you think.

You think of calloused fingers fitting perfectly between smooth carpal bones, and of the soft and fond memories of a trembling, elegantly thin fingered hand squeezing your own, the fingers quivering like a leaf in high winds while both of your voices rang steady. You think of quiet lunches over pizza, trading MP3s like currency and laughing over nothing at all, and of stealing momentary breathers out of busy days to sit down at the bar at Grillby’s, telling bad jokes until you have to get back to work. You think of lonely nights sitting on fire escapes, watching the stars burning coldly overhead. You think of huddling in a bathroom while Dawn holds you through the fourth, fifth, seventh panic attack that month. You think of looking out over Snowdin town, toward the faint and glimmering light of the Christmas tree in the town center, with hot cocoa on your tongue and a quiet and steadfast warmth pressed against your side.

You think about what it means to trust someone, explicitly, with your  _ Soul _ .

You think of consequences. Implications that you may not be ready to make, promises you most likely won’t be able to keep. You think of drowning in magic, and of the tiny, but certain magical tug that always accompanied your soul being summoned.

Are you brave enough to commit to this?

What makes a person brave, anyway?

_ This isn’t why you asked him, _ your Rational part whispers,  _ You didn’t ask him to give your soul away, even metaphorically. You asked him because you know you need to  _ **_see_ ** _ it. You need to confirm your own suspicion. _

_ And you can explain that, nothing implicit has to remain that way. _ Professional Image adds in.

_ Even so, you  _ **_do_ ** _ trust him on that implied level, even if you're not quite ready to act on it.  _ Interpersonal Relationships nods thoughtfully.  _ Is there really much harm in admitting that? _

You take another deep breath, looking up to meet his gaze again.

“Please.” you uncurl, and fold your hands in your lap. “I trust you.”

He stays as still as a statue for a few seconds more, before slowly lifting his left hand toward you, staying on the other side of the couch, well away from any sort of touching distance. He makes a brief, quick twitch of his fingers, and you feel a  _ tug _ \--

The empty, exposed, vulnerable feeling never grows less overwhelming, whenever your soul is summoned, but right now, you welcome it. You look down, and see the little glimmering amber heart floating a few inches in front of your chest, casting shifting shades against your skin like a tiny flame in and of itself.

You lift your hands to frame it, feeling the wash of warmth it’s giving off. There, at the top of one of the curves of the heart, is a small faded gray spot, roughly the diameter of your thumbnail. You hold one thumb near it to compare the size with a detached sort of calmness. It's definitely more than it was when you first died down here, three weeks ago or so, and definitely bigger than the bare glance you got of it when Shyren absently summoned it out yesterday. 

You’re not sure  _ how _ you’re managing to stay in control of your own emotions right now, but you know that if you don’t, then you will not regain control afterward.

Your own forcefully calm examination is _ not  _ mirrored by Sans. He almost flinches, his eye sockets widening and his eye lights narrowing, something like incomprehension on his face. “wh-- what is that? why is there a spot…?”

You look up at him, blinking owlishly for a few seconds, before you look down at it again. “I've died four times, I think.”

“...i… you have, but what does that…”

“There's a price for death, clearly.” You hold your hands cupped beneath your soul, and will it to follow your hands as you shift them from side to side, without moving your torso. You never know, you might need a bit of leeway in the future to have your soul dodge more freely than your body can. It's better to be safe than sorry. “Or, at least a price for not  _ staying _ dead.”

It feels  _ very  _ surreal, speaking conversationally of death, like this.

“then… what happens if you die more times down here, or…” there's a note of troubled uncertainty in his voice, like he's thought of something else that this situation applies to. You look up and see a touch of _ guilt _ in his expression.

“I don't know,” You allow, “but I assume it'd spread, in that case. Like scarring. My soul’s not as bright as it was before, is it?” his faint grimace is enough of an answer for you. “Eventually it might stop shining altogether. Maybe that's what really causes permanent death. Or maybe it's not supposed to do this, maybe the monster magic interacting with my soul is prompting a weird reaction. I don't know, I never died before coming down here, I always thought death in any capacity was permanent.”

“you did?” he tilts his head. “wait, so it’s not just a human thing, then?”

You study his face, the small tics and signs of turbulent emotions. They’re hard to pick up on, but now that you’re really  _ looking _ , you’re snagging on something like fear and self-disgust and uncomprehending confusion.

“We don’t know what happens after death.” You’re still searching his face, trying to bite down on the intense desire to ask him to just  _ talk _ to you, to just  _ tell you _ what’s bothering him. “We just know that once a person’s dead, even if their body is…  _ restarted _ , let’s say, they aren’t themselves anymore. There’s, I think, a four minute limit for us before the soul departs.” You shrug your good shoulder, glancing out the window again. “Maybe it’s different for the person experiencing the death? Maybe it’s a subjective thing, and we can’t be aware of it?”

He looks down at his hands, grimacing, “maybe they’re hopping timelines, but since you’re still in the one where they’ve died, you’d never know?”

You nod, biting at your lip. “...you sound like it’s a familiar situation to you.”

It’s just about the most…  _ politic _ way that you can approach the subject, and out of the corner of your eyes you still see the way he flinches slightly, a faint recoil when his hands clench, the way his eyes turn toward the television. The same way he’d closed off before, but now you can recognize it for what it is. You hit far closer to the mark than he wants you to know.

“Sans...” You don’t look around at him, don’t pressure him with a direct gaze, and your voice is soft and tired. You allow into your tone a bare  _ fraction _ of the consuming, soul-deep  _ fear _ resonating through your system, the feeling of helplessness, of clinging to the few facts that you can glean from the world around you and hanging off of a cliff edge otherwise, with no idea  _ why _ . He flinches again, more noticeably. You don’t say anything else, letting out a soft breath and resigning yourself. It’s his choice. You’ll have to accept it if he decides he won’t talk to you.

He fidgets in his seat, still avoiding looking at you. You turn to the TV again, picking up the remote and upping the volume so the blizzard isn’t drowning it out, an unspoken promise to drop the subject.

“before you.” He starts, suddenly, like the thought fought its way out of him and won. “before you… fell. there was another human, down here, who fell. but it’s… it’s not really  _ before _ you -- i mean, it is, in the objective perception of someone like me, a third party observer, but subjectively speaking for someone like you it wouldn’t have been before so much as it would never have happened in the first place--”

You nudge his foot, startling him. He swallows, and fidgets a bit more. “...sorry.” he takes a breath, “it’s just… i kind of can’t believe i’m doing this? so i’m... rambling? it’s just, easier to look at it from an impartial standpoint, i guess.”

“The kid I stopped from falling.” You nod toward him, “I’m not saying you can’t ramble, I just… I understood.”

He blinks up at you, searching for something in your expression for a moment before ducking down again, “...yeah, okay. the kid you stopped from falling fell here, in previous timelines, and… sometimes they were great? sometimes they felt like something to hope for, someone to trust our hopes in, and then…” he shivers, “...i don’t know what prompted the initial change. they just… never seemed willing to give up, at first, but as the timelines progressed, and the more times they tried… they seemed so tired, thinking back on it. i can’t remember much from back then, but i remember thinking how  _ tired _ they looked.

“but then… i dunno. something changed.” he tugs at a loose string on the couch cushions, avoiding your eyes. “the first timeline they made it through to king asgore, i thought we might actually…” he shakes his head, a sharp little movement of negation. You see your soul flicker in empathetic  _ ache.  _ “... it doesn’t matter. they dusted him.”

You stiffen, remembering Ellie’s words.  _ Dusted before his time _ . It doesn’t take a genius to realize that it means that Asgore must have  _ died _ , in that timeline.

“and then, i dunno what sent ‘em back, but the next timeline, they did it again. and again, and again, and again. maybe they were just tryin’ to get his soul so they could get free, maybe they… i dunno. maybe they decided they could live with one life’s debt on their hands. but the more it happened, the more things started to deviate. it was just the strongest ones, the bosses first, starting with asgore, then mettaton, and undyne.” his eye sockets go completely black. “first timeline they dusted paps i had to  _ force _ myself not to do anythin’ rash or else i’d end up dusted too.”

“Oh my god.” you whisper. He doesn’t answer, just nods down toward the no man’s land in the center of the couch. His eyelights don’t return.

“then... i wish i could say it was just one timeline. really i do.” He sounds  _ sick _ . Like he’s forcing himself not to break down in front of you. “but... seemingly outta nowhere, they just… it was like they weren’t even the same  _ kid _ , there just wasn’t… there wasn’t  _ any compassion _ in them, anymore, they didn’t seem to care about anyone. they were just racking up exp and lv like they were addicted, like they  _ had to _ .” he shudders. “like they were going to tear the world apart at the seams, just to get free.”

“It was more than one timeline?” you breathe, tucking away the apparent acronyms “lv” and “exp” in the back of your mind (you shove down your Irrational section cursing loudly about  _ goddamn fucking video games _ ) and cradling your soul between your hands like you can somehow protect it from what you’re hearing, like your hands can be some minimal shielding. “They… they did this multiple times?”

“i forced ‘em to.” he ducks his head further. “made ‘em reset, every time.”

_ The power’s only released when the soul fully shatters. _

_ Couldn’t keep ‘em  _ **_dead_ ** _ , sure, but… _

_ Does Sans hate me? _

_ I wonder if you’ll break. Like we did. _

_ How many times did they die? _ You remember wondering.  _ How many times before their soul was that faded, and how many times do I have? _

_ How many times did  _ **_Sans_ ** _ have to kill them, that they’d be so terrified that he might hate them now? _

You flicker your eyes toward the small chunk of mottled gray on your soul, a spot where it almost looks like someone scooped the light right out of it in a shallow divot. You think of the pale and sickly salmon-colored glow, and the comparatively dark and bitter ruby glow of the other soul. You can easily imagine the shade that both might have once been, a healthy and fiery crimson, glowing strong and vibrant, mirroring each other and glowing all the brighter for it.

“eventually,” he continues, when you’re quiet and nauseously contemplative long enough that it’s unlikely you’re going to answer at all, “... well. eventually they stopped. made a couple’a attempts again, like they used to be. didn’t talk anymore, looked…  _ exhausted,  _ frankly. Resets seemed to get more erratic. went back further each time.”

You remember, all at once, the very first thing that Flowey ever said to you.

_ You keep going back further each time, it’s like the world is trying to tell you to stop falling down here. _

You remember, like echoes bouncing off of the cavern walls, a broken glass smile that’s not entirely benign, a smile that  _ does not care _ about you as anything more than a fortuitous circumstance. A smile that only softened and grew more genuine toward the fragile, tiny child you’d tried to save.

_ I can still reset. Send Frisk, and you, and everything back to that tour in the caves. It’s easier to go back to the flowerbed, but I  _ **_can_ ** _ push back further. I’ve done it before, more times than I care to admit. _

“And then I happened.” you murmur, feeling a few of the more confusing puzzle pieces fit together of the information you have. It must have been a truly last ditch effort on their part, if they had done a more difficult task so many times, hoping that someone like you would interfere.

“and then you happened.” he nods, and finally tilts his head up to look at you again. You’re not sure what he must see, when he looks at you-- whether it’s a facial expression that lingers somewhere between vicious confusion and troubled comprehension; or the anxious and fitful flickering of your soul between your hands, dimming and glowing between your fingers; or a calmness that is too perfect, too placid to be real.

You twitch your fingers, and your soul trembles between them, before blazing bright and furiously  _ red _ between the two of you. He recoils again, eyes going wide, his left eye light flickering instantly into that vibrant and dangerous defensive cyan from before.

“It’s not happening again.” you all but snarl, looking up at him with savage determination in your eyes, behind a sheen of tears you refuse to shed. You’re trembling with anxious adrenaline, your fight-or-flight instincts running rampant and screaming at the magic in the air, but you shove them away and stand your ground. “I’m down here. They’re safe on the surface, and have no further need to fall, and I am  _ going _ to be the final soul. Hopefully not today, hopefully not tomorrow, preferably not for years yet, but  _ no _ other human should have to fear for their life, and  _ no _ monster is going to have to take another life by force.” you draw your shoulders back, breathing slowly, and the red fades back into the familiar orange glow, still blazing. “I’ll give mine, freely, when the time comes.”

You mentally pull your soul back toward your chest. It sinks underneath your skin with the tingly feeling of completion, like an oath has been sanctified with it. You suck in a soft hiss of quiet surprise and relief as you feel the vibrant explosion of brave certainty in your soul shape itself into something precise and solid. A feeling you recognise, now.

* * *

 

[ **_File.“WhatMakesAPersonBrave”_saved_ ** ]

* * *

 

There's a moment of tense silence as Sans forces himself to breathe and calm down, and you force yourself to breathe and stop trembling, and both of you force yourselves to digest the atom bombs of information that you're now presented with.

“it’s a big choice.” He finally breaks the silence, “are… are you sure it's what you want?”

You nod, your resolve strengthening. “Desperation makes people do stupid things.” You say, almost like a recitation. “I'd rather be resolute than desperate.” You fold your hands together and curl tighter with your appropriated quilt. “I'd rather make a promise than a regret.”

“you might come to regret it, though.” He points out softly, tentatively stretching his leg into the neutral zone again and meeting your own foot with his. It's obvious that both of you are searching for tactile reassurances, even though your own soul still quivers at being too close and he's really obviously trying to respect that. 

“I don't think I will. I don't think I  _ can. _ ” You give a weary smile, “I'm not just saying this to sound strong, believe me. It's just that this the first choice I'm more sure about than running away.” You roll onto your side and curl up to watch the movie, “First in years, at any rate. Running away has always been easier.”

He blinks at you, speechless for a moment, and you take that moment to raise the volume up again. After a long stretch of time, you feel him shift his weight into a more relaxed pose and the tension slips out of the air. You cross your ankle with his and he sags with something like comfort, and both of you drop the subject.

The blizzard outside still rages, but at least inside, all is calm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a gentle reminder, I'm happily available to chat about just about anything over on my tumblr, and would love the conversations over there too! We covered some heavy stuff with this chapter, and you are all welcome to pester me for more in depth conversation.


	37. You Know, Sleeping is Going to be Super Fun for You

You both spend the day in quiet company, alternating between watching terrible Mettaton movie reruns and watching the blizzard rage itself out of steam outside. It's late evening when it finally quiets down, and you let out a faint sigh of relief. You believed Sans when he said that they'd been through plenty of blizzards before, but there was definitely still a part of you that had tensed every time a particularly strong gust of wind had shaken the walls.

Dinner was a quiet affair. You had pulled yourself up and over to the kitchen, weariness clinging to your bones, and put together sandwiches for the both of you. By the time that the evening has well and truly fallen over Snowdin Town, you can feel the intense need to catch up on the sleep that you missed the night before. Sans gently grasps your hand when he gets up to go to bed, squeezing it slightly with an uncertain smile.

“we’ll figure this out.” he says, softly. “you and me. try to get some sleep tonight, okay?”

“...okay.” you nod, squeezing his hand back. “I’ll try.”

He pulls away, hesitating for a second before nodding a bit lamely (there's a sense of incompleteness to the movement) and turning to go to the stairs. You shift yourself back into a more comfortable position on your side and sigh, looking toward the tv in the darkness.

It doesn't take long after you hear the sound of his door clicking shut before you feel the  _ presence _ in the back of your mind again, radiating annoyed amusement.

_ Gotta give him credit, _ the voice of Frisk's friend comes, sardonic and blithe with feigned unconcern, _ he's observant.  _ Their amusement grows more prominent.  _ I wonder if he really noticed me, like he seemed to. Not that it matters. _

You sigh, not sure if you're  _ ready _ to face them tonight but knowing you have no choice. You close your eyes, certain that there's really no point about fighting it.

At first, you're almost worried. You’re exhausted, mentally, physically, and emotionally, yet sleep seems reluctant to come to you.

_ Going to come quietly, or shall I be shamelessly impatient?  _  The preteen asks, _ Actually, nevermind. Obvious answer there. _

And all at once, you feel the reluctance of sleep end, like an ambush. It sweeps over you more quickly than anything you've ever felt before. It only takes a few moments before you're sitting in an endless empty plane of darkness, with only your soul's light radiating out from your chest.

The preteen seems to almost materialize out of the darkness, glowing their own dark ruby red and settling down before you without prompting. They fold their hands in their lap and you know that this is not going to be an entirely pleasant conversation.

_ Don’t look so apprehensive.  _ They offer a razor-toothed smile, one that does nothing to quell your apprehension and does everything to magnify it.  _ I’m only here for a nice chat about decisions and intents. There’s no need to look so timid. _

_ Well, I can at least tell you my answer is no. _ You grit out, somehow managing to keep from trembling at the feeling of being a small mouse under the gaze of a hungry cat.  _ I won’t be going back up to the surface. _

_ And what a difference a day makes. _ Their smile falls off into a flat, intense stare.  _ I take it he told you, then. That’s the only reasonable excuse for why you’d be so clearly uncomfortable with talking to either of us, when you were more or less indifferent before. _

_ It’s true, then? _ You do your best to keep the bite out of the words,  _ There were timelines-- _

_ Yes. There  _ **_were_ ** _ timelines. And contrary to what the comedian might think, there will be  _ **_no more_ ** _ timelines of  _ **_that_ ** _ sort.  _ They bare their teeth again, almost like a smile, almost like a snarl. _ That option was thoroughly debunked, there’s no point in attempting it again, even when Frisk heals. I’d think after hundreds, if not over a thousand deaths in the same manner to the same monster for the same reason, it was clear that the damn skeleton is  _ **_good_ ** _ at his _ **_job._ ** They clench their hands, their knuckles going pale and white as bone with tension, their shoulders drawn back into what looks like painful propriety and control.  _ And if ever you decide to stop being useful, decide that you’re done with all of this, and decide to stop being a viable reason for Frisk to stop  _ **_literally_ ** _ torturing themself, then I’ll just have to find some other way to help them go free. _

You close your eyes, taking a moment to breathe, and shaking your head.  _ I just… can’t rationalize why you -- either of you, you or Frisk -- would even do it in the first place. _

They grimace, looking down and away from you, a momentary vulnerable distaste coming across their face. 

_...desperation makes people do stupid things. _ They finally mutter, and you recall why that same sentence had felt so familiar to you when you said it. This child, this vaguely malevolent enigma, had said it to you once, before this, the first time you met them.

_...And your desperation led to attempted genocide. _ You respond, flatly.  _ Repeatedly. _

They look back up at you, their expression curiously empty, their smile insincere.  _ Nothing else had worked up to that point. _ They shrug, as though the comment is the only explanation they need. _ And for Frisk, I was willing to try everything. _

You sit there, staring at them, stone-faced. You don’t answer.

_ It was only ever meant to happen once. Just to see if it could work. We had already both agreed that even if it did work, we wouldn’t let it stay that way.  _ They curl their lip in clear distaste,  _ The comedian simply… complicated things for me. _

_ Cool motive, _ you frown,  _ Still murder. _

Their aura blazes up around both of you, the surrounding area flaring a deep and ominous red, like wading through a sea of shed blood, and they’re on their feet and looming over you before you can blink.  **_Don’t_ ** _ patronize me.  _ They snarl, their lips peeling back from their teeth in a downright feral expression, their eyes wild and  the same unsettling ruby as the aura now surrounding both of you, as they intrude into your personal bubble.  _ I’m well aware of the price of taking any life at all. It’s a hell I stepped into long ago, and it’s a stain on my soul that will never rest on Frisk’s, so help me god. _

You feel an irrational wave of your own irritation rush up and sweep the instinctual terror away, overriding your original urge to lean away with a sharp and deliberate desire to stand your ground. 

_ Sit down _ . You snap back, the order falling from your tongue with every ounce of Overriding Adult Authority you can imbue it with. There’s an instant where they tense, a bare second where something flickers in their eyes too fast for you to catch, before they’re growling and pulling back, tangling their hands in their hair and plopping back down on their butt a few feet away from you. They don’t move or the longest moment, hunched over themself with their fingers clenched around silken brown strands. You can’t see their expression, only their shaking shoulders.

_ Look.  _ You start, shaking your head again.  _ It’s done. You’ve done it. It’s not going to go away, and frankly it doesn’t matter in the end why you did it. What matters is how it’s going to affect everything  _ **_else_ ** _ from now on.  _ You clench your own violently shaking hands into tight fists.  _ And how it already has. Pretending it has no consequences or that the consequences only affect  _ **_you_ ** _ is childish. _

You let the last word twist snidely across your tongue and are rewarded when they glare upward toward you, sullen and openly malevolent. You press onward anyway, overriding their attempt to retort.

_ I firmly believe that no one has to remain the person they are, and that mistakes of the past can be forgiven. But dismissing them does nothing, and helps nothing.  _ You’re clenching your hands tight enough that you can feel the bite of your fingernails digging crescent shaped divots into your palms.  _ They’re still mistakes, and they still happened. Discussing that fact is not patronizing you, and I for one am sick and tired of feeling intimidated and belittled by you, alright? So you can speak to me as a child and be treated as a child, or you can speak to me as an equal, _ you lean toward them, your eyes narrowed with your own determination, your soul flaring up and overriding the ominous red with a warm, fierce fiery amber,  _ And be treated as such. _

They continue glaring at you, almost sulking. After a moment, you nod and sit up straight again, taking a breath and willing the tension to slide out of your shoulders. The light around both of you fades back into darkness.

_ Whatever. _ You shake your head.  _ It doesn’t matter. I’ve made my choice. You won’t have to worry about needing to reset, or Frisk needing to fall again.  _ You look up at them, meeting their gaze again with a resolute frown.  _ Life moves on. _

They’re quiet and still for a long, long moment, studying your face with a guarded expression, before they slowly uncurl and sigh, looking away from you and into the empty darkness.  _ For those of us who still have a life to move on with, I suppose. _ They hum, softly,  _ The option will still remain open to you, but in this particular case, I suppose we can reserve it for when you bring it up yourself. So long as you remain faithful to your decisions-- _

_ Kid, _ you can’t help the small quirk of your lips in amusement,  _ If there’s one thing I can do, it’s remain faithful to my decisions. _

They stare at you for a long moment, like they don't understand the joke, before shaking their head.  _ And there you are again. Sitting with a murderous monster and stupidly not running away. _

_ You’ve said it’s not going to happen again. _ You shrug,  _ I’d rather believe the best in other people and believe that people can change than be a pessimist. _

_ That’s a dangerous mentality in regards to regrets and betrayal.  _ Their smile returns, dangerous and cold, but the guarded look that’s still in their eyes takes most of the bite out of it for you. You know that this child is immensely powerful, but the fact remains -- they are a child. They are a child who tensed when you snapped at them, and then complied with your order; a child who sulked when you called them out on their bull, but did not argue; and a child who has done nothing to you outright. The only thing they’ve done is threaten you for the sake of Frisk… and considering you’re quite inclined to agree that Frisk needs to be protected, you’re willing to let that slide.

_ I suppose I’m trusting you not to go back on your word, then.  _ You hold out your hand to them, keeping your gaze locked with theirs, despite the difficulty of your anxiety trembling at the intensity in the unsettling red eyes. There’s a moment before they move again, but then their hand lifts, and meets yours, and you shake on it.

_ You’ll really stay down there? _ They ask, a tentative note in their voice.

_ For Frisk.  _ You nod, smiling at them. Slowly, a smile blooms on their face as well -- it’s still not an entirely benevolent smile, but they shake your hand up and down once more, decisively, before letting go. You think, maybe, that they might just have the kind of face that can intimidate no matter what.

_ For Frisk. That’s one thing we can agree on. _

You pull your hand back and fold it with the other one in your lap, biting your lip.  _ So… what now? _

_ Well, I can send you to normal sleep, I suppose.  _ They shrug one shoulder, looking mildly bored.  _ Doesn’t really matter to me. _

_ What about you? _

_ I’ll just… go back to Frisk. They’re asleep right now, they probably won’t even notice I was gone. _

You blink at them, at the way that they’re now studiously avoiding your gaze.  _ Can’t you sleep too? _

_ Sleeping is the body’s way of recharging itself. The mind amuses itself while it recharges, and prompts dreaming.  _ They shrug again.  _ No body, no exhaustion, no need to recharge. I can drop into a sort of… zen state, in order to rest my… consciousness, I suppose, but that’s about it. _

You think, perhaps, if you hadn’t already known that you’d encountered Frisk before, but not this child -- if you hadn’t known, if they hadn’t  _ admitted _ , that  _ they _ and not Frisk had been the one taking the consequences of taking a life, even when it was Frisk who had fallen before you -- if you hadn’t known that they existed in  _ your _ head, and most likely existed in  _ Frisk’s _ head as well -- then the admission that they didn’t have a body would have surprised you. As it is, you simply nod.

You think, for a moment, about asking them what happened to them, but then promptly decide that it’s really none of your business at the moment. If you need to know, it will become apparent, and you will learn when it becomes necessary.

When the moment has stretched on and the silence has grown heavy, they square their shoulders and smile that dangerously empty smile at you again, and wave a hand toward you.

_ Until next time, then. _ Their features seem to blur, to fade into the darkness around you both and melt away, and for just a few blissful seconds, you’re alone in the quiet, comfortable emptiness.

And then your dreams reassert themselves, and

 

_**D̛͎̿͑̄̎̀ͩ i̥ d̜̭̠̮̪̳͋̆ͭ̄̀ ̜̥͒̍̂͐͑̎y͇̱̩̘̱̩̼̒̿́ͦ̄ o̬̖̺̘̻͓̾ͫ ȗ̝͈̒̀ ̠̖͕̗͇̗͉͌͋̒̑͒̇r̸͌̏̊ e̟̮͇̩͓̝͖̾̓ͦ̆̈ a͈ͮ̆́͆͟ l̻̫̝̖̠̟̇̍̈́̔̎ͣ̾͟ ļ̞͙͖̖͕͙̰͆͋ y̛͚ͨͮ ̩̰̳̞̠̙͓ͧͥtͬͨͣ̇̆̎͗͝ h͚̜̺͙̝̪͂ͤ̓ i̮͕͈̯̺͇ͅ n͇̯͔̪͈ͣ́ͯͩ̾̕ k̺̠͍̉̏̀ ̷̜ṭ͍̫̊̆ͧ́̏ͅ h̦̀͐ͨ́̔̉ e̞̺͒ͣ̿̓ r̶̠̻͎̤͇̟͛̉̌̓ͥ̚ e̝͇̖̠̯͒͛̓̽̆ ͕̰̦̓͐ͩ͐͛̈́̈ŵ̯̟̹̙͎̝̝̂͒ͪ͗̒͌͡ ò̡͈̖͕͖͖̰̌̅̇͌ͮ̚ͅ u̝̪̳͚̙̗ͦ̋̒͛̔͒ ĺ̦̮͙͑ ḏ̛̝̠͐̌̿̈ͥ ̮͎̫͍̬̰ͦ͛ͤ̋͌̏̎b͕̥̯͑ͭͤͤ̾̊͝ e̦̣̮ ̷͔̄̓̄n̜͂ͯͯ̇̃̈́ o̬͚̩̠̼̣̼͗͒ͣ̇ͨ͞ ̻̇͂ͬ̿ͪc̹͈̩͈͗́̑ o͓̤̭͉͎̱ͩ̎ͭ̒ͬ̾͡ ń͙̋ͨ̓̑ s͈͕̲͕̗̤ e͛ q̞͚̬̯͇͛ͩ̽ͩ u̵͎ ęͧͣ̆ͥ̄̋ nͥ c͓͇̼̼̭̦͉͌̑̉ͧ̉ͨ e̠͍̹͎̜̥ͮ̓ͥͥ͋̒̕ s̤̪̭̗̼̯ͥ͑̈̍ͤ̽͞ͅ ?̤̙͇̙͎͈̹̓ͪ͜ ͇̜̮̹̮̣̜̈́ͪ͝** _

 

A murmuring tour group and a heavy eyed child in front of you; quiet and ominous woods with a golden flower smiling gleefully up at you; wooden platforms splintering underneath your feet; the smell of ozone in the air; your fingers creaking and slipping from rough wooden planks;  _ drowning  _ in magic, helpless and out of control--

_ \--standing in a hallway drenched in golden light, the rough leather handle of a chipped knife pressing against your left palm, adrenaline in your veins and spiteful,  fraying determination painting the edges of your vision red, red with anger and frustration, red with the dying light of a fire that refuses to burn out, red with the sunset across the too-still bone features and a fixed, lazy,  _ **_insolent_ ** _ grin of the monster standing ten feet from you, flowers blooming through the tiles in the floor, birdsong mournfully filling the empty underground --  _ you know that voice, you know her mournful croon, you know that  _ they will find the irritant soon-- _

You jolt up from the couch at two in the morning with a stifled yelp, soaked in sweat, your heart hammering violently as the images burned across the backs of your eyelids flare into uncomfortably vivid solidity. 

Your chest is heaving as you struggle to get your breathing back under control, shoving your hands up and tangling them into your hair, tugging until the pain grounds you. Your shoulder is throbbing, a pain that ebbs and flows like a riptide threatening to pull you out to sea. You reach for your phone without thinking, automatically moving to call Dawn.

It’s only when you hear the “ We're sorry; the number you have dialed is unavailable or out of service--. ” chirping cheerfully in your ears that it registers exactly what you’d tried to do. Your breathing catches in your throat and you huddle down over yourself, trembling from head to toe.

You shove yourself off the couch, wrapped tightly in the quilt, and stumble barefoot into the bathroom, intending to splash your face and wake yourself up fully. Your face is pale when you manage to look up into the mirror, your hair frizzing out in every direction and your eyes still slightly wild, even moreso with water dripping down your chin.

“I’m okay.” you whisper, repeatedly. “I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay.” you lie.

You drag your hands down your face and flick water droplets down into the sink, taking a deep breath. It’s still hard to breathe around the pain in your shoulder. It’s starting to feel stiff, too, and you’re slightly worried that it’s going to heal wrong.

You glance down at it in the mirror, and try to gauge if the dressing needs to be cleaned and redone. Considering how torn up it had been before, you think it should probably be periodically cleaned -- you don’t want it to get infected.

You carefully untangle the knot and slowly unwrap it with your free hand, keeping your injured arm braced against the rim of the sink so it doesn’t move too much. Your breath catches as the bandaging sticks briefly to your scabbing skin, and the sting overwhelms the bone-deep ache for a few seconds.

Running water over a spare washcloth, you quickly dab the oozing wound until it stops stinging and then re-wrap it again. You take an extra few moments to stretch your shoulder, moving and bending your arm in its socket to make sure the muscles don’t tighten up. The  _ wrongness _ radiating from your collarbone makes your eyes water, but you grit your teeth and endure it.

Once you feel like you’ve sufficiently tormented yourself for the night, you shut off the water and turn out the bathroom light, padding tiredly back over to the couch. You could, maybe, retreat outside for a few minutes, but you know yourself. A few minutes is never  _ only _ a few minutes -- you’ll be sitting outside and letting the empty air fill you up for hours, at least.

You lay down on your uninjured side and curl around a loose cushion, and close your eyes again. Maybe you won’t fall asleep again, maybe you will and will be woken by nightmares again, but you’re at least going to try.

You promised Sans that you would. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts for all: September 20th of 2017 marks the one year anniversary of me starting to write this story, even if it's not the start of me posting it. It will have chapter 40 posted on it.
> 
> Also, important updates over on my tumblr! Be sure to check over there, after y'all leave me a nice comment here. ❤❤❤


	38. Grillby's is Actually The Greatest Place to Work

Your phone chirps out its daily seven AM alarm right next to your ear, startling you out of the latest adrenaline fueled nightmare, but at least this time you simply wake with a small jump and not a yelp. You rub at your eyes and shut off the cheerful little beeping, autopilot taking over as you shuffle into the kitchen to make breakfast.

Sans shuffles in when the kettle goes off, taking your spot watching the eggs without needing to be prompted as you move away to grab a potholder so you don’t burn your hand. There’s something very domestic and comfortable about working in the kitchen with him, since you move in quiet synchronicity between tasks, alternating between which of you is watching the food cook and which of you is pulling necessary items out of the fridge or sorting out the silverware situation. It doesn’t take long after that for you both to be settled in the living room again, on opposite sides of the couch with your legs crossing over his on the center cushion and your plates in your laps. He’s wearing another one of his jackets, even though you’d left the other one draped over the top of the couch for him to take back. 

When he finishes his food and takes the plate into the kitchen, you know that he’s got to go. He wouldn’t bother cleaning up if he was going to stay another day with you.

“Going to work?” you ask him when he returns to stand near you again. He nods.

“you?”

You consider, grimacing, but then nod. “Can’t run from it forever,” you reason.

“...i’ll be there as soon as i can spare a moment,” he promises, “but alph texts updates to paps, when i’m shirking.”

“Go do your job, bonehead.” You smile tiredly up at him, lifting a hand to press your fingertips to the magically joined bones of his wrist for a few seconds. “I'll manage.”

“you always do, gumdrop.” he leans down long enough to pull your hand up and press his mouth against your knuckles, a light pressure of hard bone and teeth against your scarred up and battered skin. Then he pulls away, quietly squeezing your hand before stepping back and disappearing between one blink and the next with a surge of power. It still sends shivers down your spine, but you nonetheless find yourself smiling and leaning back against the couch cushions again. You sip at your tea and calm yourself for several minutes before moving to clean up your own dishes and get ready, as you’ve gotten used to doing, for work.

When you leave the house at a quarter to eleven, to start the walk across the town square, you are wrapped securely in the spare jacket that Sans left with you. The furry collar brushes against your cheeks and fills you with a comforting, homely, familiar warmth. You pause at the christmas tree only long enough to brush a bit of frost off of the highest silvery ornament you can reach, making it catch the ambient blue-white light of a beautiful Snowdin morning.

When you enter Grillby’s, the woodsmoke and alcohol scent in the air almost soothes you, filling you with something familiar and warm as a hearthfire, even as you turn away from the bar and to the coat rack next to the door. You keep your gaze toward the wall and swallow, even as you feel the eyes in the restaurant swing around to rest on you.

Deliberately, you tug your borrowed jacket off and hang it up. The only clean shirt you’d found this morning was an off-the-shoulder one, a fact that you’d initially found hilariously ironic. The clean wrappings around your shoulder are in perfect view, even as you snag your apron off of the same coat rack and wrap it around your waist.

There’s a heady sense that sweeps through the restaurant, like all of the world has drawn in a startled breath at once, as you turn and square said shoulders to face your fate. You know you’re trembling, and you want to be brave, but there’s terror bubbling under your skin as you meet Grillby’s gaze from across his restaurant. This could be the moment. This could be when he shakes his head, and when you know that you are no longer welcome.

He lowers the rag that he’s using to clean, setting it down on the bar. You watch as he steps around the bar again, walking into the open. Your trembling grows more intense, your knees quaking against each other and the heady feeling starting to grow overwhelming. You pull in a nervous hiss of a breath as he stops in front of you.

There’s a long moment of silence, and you can’t keep his gaze anymore. You stare at the floor between the two of you and tremble, your throat threatening to close off entirely. You feel like you’re going to run at any second, run or pass out or have your legs stop holding you up.

And then he gently lifts a hand, keeping it well within your line of sight and moving slowly, until he can gesture toward your wrapped up shoulder. You steal a glance up at him to see his fiery brows furrowed in clear concern.

“I-It’s…” you stammer, biting your lip, “Just a-- Grillby, sir, I--”

_ You, hurt, on task? _ He gestures out, pointing at the center of your chest, then at the injury, then pantomiming walking-for-me with his hands. 

“I-I mean, yes, but--”

He holds up a fiery hand to stop you, tilting his head with clear confusion and concern before gesturing over to the bar, leading you over on unsteady footing. He pats the stool you usually snag for your breaks, and gently tugs on your arm to make you sit when you hesitate. Once you’re stable on the seat, he leans on the bar beside you, slipping his hands into his pockets and fixing you with an intent stare. It’s the most direct confirmation that he’s listening to you that you can get.

You swallow heavily. “I would understand if…” you force out before you can overthink it, your voice faint and breathless with anxiety. “...you’d… rather not have a human in your employ, sir.”

He tilts his head at you, his insubstantial face twisting and flickering into something like confusion and disbelief. He gestures around at the restaurant, then gestures at the center of your chest again, and there’s a brief flare of warmth and comfort and  _ happiness _ when he holds his hands over your soul.

“U-Um.” You fidget, “Are you… asking me if working here makes me happy?”

He nods.

“O-Of course!” you grip at the edge of the bar, almost desperate with your insistence. “I’ve never loved working anywhere more, of course I’m happy working here. But, Grillby, I’m--”

He shakes his head, a sharp little movement with a decidedly unhappy crackle.

_ You, _ he gestures, more forcefully, and then gestures around, and points decisively at the floor.  _ Belong here. _

“... you're not… afraid of me?” There's a heavy lump forming in your throat, your breathing is coming faster, there's disbelief in your gut and a vice around your lungs. This is too good to be true, it's… there has to be a moment where the other shoe drops. Where he points at the door and where you feel legitimately nuts for ever thinking that--

_ You,  _ he makes the gesture again,  _ belong here. _

You can feel your heart flaring up in something wild and powerful and insanely, overwhelmingly happy. You hiccup, and feel the lump in your throat solidify into a weak, grateful sob. Grillby reaches forward to gently grip your good shoulder, holding you steady, then starts to rub your back when you lean over yourself to all but blubber into your arms. The vice around your chest has loosened, and it’s almost legitimately  _ painful _ how relieved you are.

You hear the door open behind you, and hear quiet murmurings as the regulars start to shuffle in, then notice you. You think you hear Sidney tutting softly at someone, and stopping them from approaching, and you think (beyond your ugly crying noises) you hear her say “no, this  _ has _ to be between her and Grillby.”

The small crowd scuffles to various places around the bar while you sniffle and hiccup and try to pull yourself together. Grillby stands you up while you're still too teary-eyed to see straight, and guides you with one hand light on your wrist and the other resting at the small of your back, several inches within politely decreed propriety, until you're directed through the door behind the bar that you've always thought of as the fire escape. It leads down a hallway (off of which the restaurant's pantry and the entryway to Grillby's own quarters are attached) out into the back alley behind the building. The cool air bites a bit at your damp cheeks, but it feels at least marginally easier to breathe.

Grillby hands you a handkerchief from his vest pocket. You wipe at your eyes and resist the urge to blow your nose like a trumpet into the borrowed fabric.

“I'm sorry,” you sniffle, congested, “I'm sorry I'm freaking out. I… I'm happy, really I am. I was just-- So  _ scared _ that you wouldn't… that I couldn't… that because I'm a  _ human _ …”

“... You,” Grillby murmurs,  _ aloud _ , and you startle a bit, “are a Snowdin citizen, and my waitress,” he crackles a bit, burning a bit brighter and putting off warmth to combat the chill around you, “no matter what else.”

You sniffle again and dab at your eyes.

“Take whatever time you need to collect yourself.” he straightens his collar and turns toward the door again. “When you are ready, and if you so choose, your work will still be there for you.” he disappears back inside again, leaving you holding the handkerchief and still feeling vaguely punch-drunk with relief.

Your throat still feels tight, but you know that that's just a side effect of your inability to cry elegantly.

You stand there for a few seconds before finally giving in and blowing your nose.

(Eugh, snot bubble. Gross. No, you cannot cry elegantly  _ at all _ .)

You allow yourself several minutes to calm down before you step back inside again. The quiet cacophony of chattering in the restaurant eases itself under your skin like a pulse, and you can't quite help but feel the comforting calm fall over you.

The first half hour passes quietly, while you take orders for lunches and make quiet, polite conversation. Most of the regulars are kind enough not to mention your splotchy face or your swollen eyelids, or the dark circles underneath your eyes, though they do each take a moment in their own way to show concern over your wrapped up shoulder. Luckily, it seems everyone is quietly keeping an eye on what you're doing, since you only have to wave away the first monster who offers a healing hand. You think you must have visibly flinched at the offer -- otherwise you don't know why the others would take such care not to even suggest it, despite their clear concern and the seemingly reflexive desire to help.

Other than that, you would be hard pressed to locate anything out of the norm, which in itself strikes you as odd. You aren't surprised that the K9 unit treats you the same as always, but they already knew you were a human from day one. The rest of the regulars, however…

You sit down an hour into your shift once everyone is content for the moment, slipping into the booth near the door so you can hunch down across from Sidney and try to disappear for a few moments. She slides her drink over toward you, and you take a gulp of it without needing to be prompted. It tastes like strawberries and cream -- the bitter undertone of the alcohol is damn near nonexistent.

She takes a few bites of her salad, humming calmly to herself as if nothing is wrong, and finally you just have to ask.

“...is, um. Is no one-- I mean, erm... “ you bite your lip. “...you… you all know… that I’m human, right?”

She gives a soft hum in affirmation, swallowing her latest bite. “Oh, yeah. Pretty much everyone figured, y’know?”

“...what?”

“Yeah, like… since Cyril fixed the jukebox, I think. At least, we all suspected by that point.  No'ffense, but the second you reached for an ice pack instead of just healing him, we all kinda started placing bets." She takes another bite and chews thoughtfully, waving her fork at you and continuing with one cheek puffed out with food. “Mnd fen, boggo, p’muh guhfum’d ih meh me ahkd.”

“Wait, hang on-- swallow, oh my god, Sidney, I can’t understand you.”

“Fahwee.” she shrugs, and you  _ think _ that was supposed to be an apology, but she obligingly swallows before she tries again. “I said, Doggo pretty much confirmed it when we asked him. Everyone here’s known for a while, booboo.”

You blink up at her, at a loss for words for a moment, before you throw your hands up in the air and raise your voice in clear dismay, “Then why did Grillby send me into Waterfall when Undyne’s been there  _ wanting me dead?! _ ”

There’s the sound of four different monsters choking on their food or otherwise doing spit-takes while struggling not to laugh behind you. You look over your shoulder to catch sight of Grillby with his face in one hand, shaking his head from side to side like a metronome, and with the air of apologetic embarrassment about him. 

The worst part is? You’re not even angry. You’re just so absurdly confused that it’s almost hilarious, and a part of you wants to burst out into hysterical laughter. There’s just… a part of you that’s still screaming that there’s no _ way _ this entire thing can be that stupid, right?

Then again, you were stupid-brave enough at the time to straight up “YOLO” it.

(God, were you really that unsettled about your inability to articulate your feelings for Sans two days ago that it impaired your rational judgement that much? ...Results show, yes. God fucking damnit, you are an  _ idiot _ .)

You groan loudly and turn back around, bending over the table and thunking your forehead against it. “I give uuuuuup.” you whine plaintively. “Day before yesterday was a shitshow and I’m done, it’s over, I’m not thinking about it anymore. None of y’all are allowed to bring it up, ever. Do you hear me?  _ Ever _ .” You pitch your voice to carry around the restaurant and gulp down a bit more of the sugar-sweet alcohol mixer that Sidney had shoved your way. There's an amused rumble of assent from the rest of the monsters, and slowly, conversation rises back to normal levels.

You remain in your seat, and only startle when someone -- Cyril, it turns out -- slides into the both next to Sidney, resting his elbows on the table and giving you an exceptionally toothy hamster grin. “Good to see you're at least in one piece,” he says earnestly, “Bad break on your shoulder, though. You sure you don't want anyone trying their hand at healing it--?”

A particularly violent shudder races down your spine, and you immediately hold up your hands defensively in front of you, squeaking maybe a tad too loudly, “ _ No!  _ I, um, just… just, no. Thank you. But no.”

Sidney daintily jams her elbow into Cyril’s side and knocks him right out of the booth. She scoots out after him and tugs you out of the other side, dragging you to the door and loudly declaring “Girl talk, nobody interrupt!” You barely have the chance to grab your appropriated jacket before you're out in the snow again.

“Okay, real talk.” She says the second she's turned around to look at you again. “Do I have to pick a fight with someone for you? Do I gotta kick some butt?” there's a note of worried intensity in her expression, but you're inordinately pleased to note that she's at least asking first. You shake your head, smiling a little bit, as you tug the jacket on to combat the cold air.

What did you do to deserve a friend like this?

“No, Sinnabun, it's…” you give a weak little laugh, rubbing tension from your sore, sleep deprived eyes. “It's… already being dealt with, I'm pretty sure.”

“Really sure? I don't gotta fight Cyril?” she sounds almost disappointed. “You freaked out a little bit there.”

“It wasn't Cyril, bun-bun, I would've reacted the same to Grillby, or even you.” You shake your head again, and turn your gaze to the ground. “It's the offer, not the offerer.”

“...but… why would having your shoulder healed be bad?”

“It’s…” you raise a hand up to rub at said shoulder, knowing that your smile probably looks as fake as it feels. “...an awfully long story. Short version, though, is that it got attempted already, didn't work with rather terrible side effects on  _ my end _ , and I'm not all that eager to try again. It can heal the long way, I don't mind that.”

You let out a soft squeak of surprise as Sidney pulls you forward into a big, warm, soft bunny hug with your face pulled into her shoulder. 

“Well, okay, booboo, but the second you want me to kick some butt for you, you let me know okay? I got dibs. Y’hear me?  _ Dibs _ .” She pulls back a couple of inches to make a face at you, tickling your nose with her whiskers. “I'll face down the king himself if I've gotta.”

You giggle weakly and hug her back properly, “You might have to wait for what's left after Sans and Ellie have had their turns, but the sentiment is appreciated, Sinnabun.”

She tucks her arm around yours and follows you back inside, leaning heavily on your good shoulder with a croon of interest. “Ooooh, ickle Sansykins is high on the list, I see.”

You lightly shove her back toward her booth with a mischievous sort of grin. “Higher today than he was yesterday, and higher yesterday than before that. But I'd better get back to it, bunnaboo.”

“Wait you can't just drop a bomb like that and then  _ leave _ me -- by the  _ Stars  _ woman that's just not  _ fair _ \--”

“ _ Later _ , Sinnabun~” you tip a salute with your good hand, unable to really stop yourself from snickering, and move back over toward the bar, intending to start your periodic check on the other customers there. 

You think… tentatively, of course… that maybe this might actually...

...be okay...?

_Well,_ you think, _only time will tell._


	39. Different Might Not Be So Bad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heavy thoughts persist well before the world wakes.

You are trying, really you are, to get a full night's sleep. It's not your fault that you're not really doing it -- between the insomnia and the nightmares, it's kind of a sad foregone conclusion at this point that you're just… not going to be getting enough sleep for a while. But that doesn’t change the fact that you  _ are trying _ .

You tell yourself this as you startle awake from the middle of a nightmare of that golden hallway that you’ve never seen in person before, curled around a cushion tightly enough that the seams are starting to fray. It’s still dark. Too dark to see.

For a few bleary seconds, you almost forget where you are. You feel yourself automatically running down the checklist -- smells of mold? creaky fire escape sounds outside? lumpy couch? -- but the house smells of woodsmoke and pine needles, and clear air and worn cotton; the couch has formed a nice little you-shaped divot in the center that cushions you on all sides, with no unfortunate hard lump right at the center of your back; and most importantly, the house is quiet, and you can hear the comforting sounds of the presence of your two boys from upstairs, between Papyrus’ soft ‘nyehehe’ snores and the soft creaking sound you’ve come to associate with Sans rolling over in bed.

_ Oh, _ you think, sleepily, and the word is soft and fond and pleasantly surprised, because this isn’t any one of your Checklist of Shitty Apartments.  _ That’s right. Home. _

You sit up, yawning into your hand, and peer out the window at the silent snowfall outside. Then you go to the bathroom to re-check your shoulder. At some point you manage to spare a glance at your phone for the time, and find that it’s almost four AM on October 31st. 

Halloween.

Ellie still hasn’t returned by the time that dawn rises over Snowdin, and you’re mildly worried, but at the same time you know that when and if she returns or not is her choice in its entirety. So when you find yourself sitting on the front stoop of the house, draped in Sans’ spare jacket and holding a cup of  _ early _ early morning tea, as the light breaks over Snowdin at just past five in the morning, you tell yourself it’s not because you’re waiting and hoping she’ll be back soon.

Papyrus had come home the night before and, to his credit, he hadn’t tried to offer to heal your shoulder. He’d simply flopped lengthwise across both you and Sans on the couch (a move that you do not mind in the slightest) and proclaimed that he was suspending his cooking lessons with Undyne for a while. When the skeleton brothers had retreated upstairs, you’d bedded down with a dubious smile on your face. It was good to have both skeleton brothers at home where you could keep an eye on them, and where you know they can look out for you, but it’s just… not entirely the same without the soft twittering sleep-sounds of Ellie nested down in your sweatshirt on top of the couch.

So the cold morning wakes with you half-dozing into your tea on the front stoop, curled up with Sans’ spare jacket curled around you. Thanks to the magic on the jacket itself, you barely even feel the cold air. You’re only startled awake when you hear footsteps coming closer in the snow, and you blink sleepily upward at the approaching visitor with the start of a polite smile on your face--

Kid is standing in front of you, shifting uncertainly on his feet.

“Y-Yo, miss.” he scuffs one clawed foot in the snow, giving one tentative, sheepish smile. “I just… wanted to say thanks, y’know, for saving me. You’re a real hero! And I’m sorry I was afraid of you.”

You set your tea to the side, lifting a hand up to give a jaw-cracking yawn, and nodding drowsily toward him. “I’m really glad you’re okay, Kid.” you hum on the tail end of it, “Holding up okay after the scary bit?”

“I-I’m kinda dealing with some nightmares.” he admits, inching closer and sitting down when you pat the stoop beside yourself. “I didn’t realize adventuring could be so scary. Undyne makes it look so cool…! But, thinking back on it, you never really seemed eager to adventure, so… I’m sorry, for that. ‘M sorry you had to put up with me.”

“It’s okay.” you reach over to lightly press at his shoulder, “I’m dealing with nightmares myself, y’know? Adventuring is a big thing, and sometimes it’s scary, and now you know that. But I don’t really mind that I played along with it. Sometimes it’s worth it.” You quirk a grin toward him. “You were worth it. Don’t ever think you aren’t.”

He beams toward you, and when you lift an arm toward him he burrows readily into your side for a tight hug. “Thank you.” he mumbles, before pulling back, “So, uh… why’re you sleeping outside?”

You don’t give your first answer, deciding to go for a joke instead. You tug on the hem of the borrowed jacket you’re lounging in. “Isn’t it obvious? It’s Halloween. I’m dressed up as Sans, and he can reportedly sleep anywhere.”  _ And with jackets like this, I can understand why and how. They’re absurdly comfortable. Can barely even tell that it’s snowing out. _

He gives a little snort, surprised at the joke, before his grin falls and he ducks his head again. “Ahhh, man. Halloween! I forgot... ‘n now I’m grounded forever. Guess I’m not goin’ trick or treating.”

You hum noncommittally, taking a sip of your getting-cold tea. After a few seconds, you put it down and put a hand on his shoulder. “Buck up,” you order softly. “Tell you what. You hurry home, okay? Get back before your mom wakes up. Stay on good behavior today, she’s a nice sort, she might show a little leniency.” you offer a small smile at the look of unbridled hope that forms on his face, and he immediately hops up again, scattering slush onto the wood of the stoop.

“Okay!” he nods furiously, bouncing a few feet away before pausing and turning back to grin at you. “Thanks again, miss! I owe you my life!”

“You owe yourself your life.” you call back into the misty morning quiet. “Now do something good with it. And stop sneaking out without permission!”

He bounces and bobs his head a couple of times before turning and dashing back across the square, disappearing in the cold morning fog somewhere beyond the Christmas tree. You lift your tea again and take another sip, letting out a puff of air through your nose that mists in front of your face.

“you’re really good with kids.”

You don’t startle, for maybe the first time in the last few extremely jumpy days. Something about having addressed another one of the pillars of unease that have been tearing you apart inside has managed to instill a sense of contentment that overrides the anxiety, at least for a few moments.

Sans settles down beside you on the top step, radiating his own warmth and adding to the comfortable warmth that the jacket is providing for you. You sit still for a few seconds, before carefully leaning yourself over to press your good shoulder against his, soaking in the warmth he’s giving off. He tangles his hand with yours and you squeeze at it.

“I like kids.” you respond, “At least, in theory.”

“in theory?” he snickers, glancing toward you.

“Well, I haven’t had a chance to practice on any that I can’t give back spoiled half-rotten.” you offer a sleepy grin toward him yourself.

“still. they listen to you, when it matters.” he points out, leaning his skull over until it rests against yours. “that's hard to accomplish.”

“If you say so,” you sigh, your eyelids heavy. 

“...still not sleeping well, huh?” he asks after a moment, when you're mostly limp and heavy against him.

“I'm trying.” You grump back. “It was better last night. I didn't instinctively reach for my phone to call a best friend who I'm never gonna see again.”

The last part comes out bitter, without awake-filter, and you feel him tense for a couple of seconds before he sags with his own kind of exhaustion.

“... Sorry.” You mumble. 

“no, don't be. it just surprised me… i guess i’ve stopped really, y'know… paying much thought to what it's like down here for humans.” his voice has softened into a gently vulnerable tone, and you squeeze his fingers between your own. “been through all of this so often that it. uh. sorta stopped feeling real, i guess? it's… weird, having a first time through again after so long. sorta forgot how dangerous things down here can really be for humans.”

“Like the bridge?” you ask, thinking back to when you first entered Snowdin town, the bridge that sent you spiralling into a long overdue panic attack where you’d been so certain you were about to die.

“yeah, like the bridge. and like the whole undyne situation, and just… the bounty in general, i guess. we’re s’posed to kill on sight, or at least capture and bring any humans to the king… and then  _ he’d _ handle the unpleasant part.” Sans squeezes at your hand, a tiny little twitch that makes you smile. It’s like he’s responding to a perceived threat. “but the kid did it so many times, it almost seemed like it became… well…”

“Not  _ easy _ , but  _ routine _ ?” you offer, when he trails off, opening your eyes fully to pull back and look up at him. You’re pretty sure you really ought to pay attention to this part, considering how hesitant he’s been to open up with you about what came  **_before_ ** .

“more than that.” he shakes his head, “it was like… reciting from a script. nothing changed. nothing mattered. just said my necessary lines, played my part, and… waited for the end, i guess.” He looks down and away from you, fidgeting a little bit, and his voice grows softer and more vulnerable with each word until he’s practically mumbling the last few. It strikes you, all at once, what he’s actually admitting to here, and you realize just how carefully he’s trying to tread.

You slowly reach over to tap at his opposite cheekbone.

“Hey,” you say, biting at your lip, “Look at me, okay? Sans… you know, it’s-- it’s okay, to admit if you’ve been dealing with… y-y’know, depression.” He glances up at you, and you offer a sheepish smile before forging on. “It’s a heavy subject, but like… I have really severe anxiety? Like, all the time? And sometimes my brain just completely revolts against what I want and actively fucks me over, and you’ve been so patient and helpful, and…” you make a soft, irritated sound in the back of your throat, shaking your head sharply once and sighing, “I’m doing a really terrible job of saying this, but like. I’m not going to judge you for dealing with mental shit.” You soften your own voice. “I’d be a pretty big hypocrite if I did.”

He grimaces, slightly, “i-- i just didn’t want to seem like i was trying to take the focus off of what you’re going through. i just wanted to be supportive, and offer my own perspective, and not… not seem like i was overriding you.”

You shake your head at him, keeping eye contact. “Just because someone else might have it worse for the moment doesn’t mean your own troubles are less important. They still matter, and you’re still dealing with them.” Another tentative attempt at a smile, “Besides. I’d rather--” you cough when the words catch in your throat, and bite your lip, looking down at your joined hands and certain that your face is bright red. “I’d rather we help each other. If that makes sense. I want to help you, the same way you’ve been helping me. I want to know when things are bad, rather than find out afterward.”

He’s quiet for a moment, before he lets out another short chuckle, a mournful little “heh” that  _ aches _ . “well it’s… it’s bad. i got a lot of unpleasant baggage. lots’a skeletons in my closet.”

“And I don’t?” you lean against him again, pressing your shoulder firmly into his arm and managing to only shiver when you feel the quiet, unfathomable magic surging up in him again. It’s still a lot, but you think he needs this, and you know that you need this, need to  _ try _ . “Joys shared are doubled. Sorrows shared are halved. Let me halve…” you offer a slight grin, making a chopping motion with your other hand, ”and let me  _ have _ ,” you cup your free hand in the space you just cut in ‘half’, tightening it into a fist, “some of the sorrow from you.”

He offers a tentative grin of his own, “...okay, but not today. it's going to be crazy enough as is, without both of us out of commission on emotional stuff.”

“So you  _ do _ do things on Halloween, then?”

“oh, yeah, loads. paps has been working on his costume for months. i usually wind up minding the candy bowl for the kids while paps goes gallivanting off to trick or treat. it's fun.”

“Would you… mind some company with the candy bowl? We can both be you. Take turns napping, make bad skeleton jokes…” you tug on the hem of your borrowed jacket with a smile. “It might be entertaining.”

“i’d like that, gumdrop.” he smiles that softer, rarer smile at you, the one that fills you with a familiar, welcoming warmth and makes your cheeks heat up. He releases your hand and wraps his arm around your shoulders, squeezing slightly in a gentle one-armed hug. The heavy shiver that runs down your spine doubtlessly does not go unnoticed, as he’s quick to pull back to a respectable distance, giving an understanding smile. He knows you’re still… working on it.

“Sorry.” you offer a rueful smile anyway.

“it’s fine.” he shakes his head. “i’m just happy to be here.”

_ Allowed to be this close at all, _ your mind translates automatically. You wrap your arms around your legs and rest your chin on your knees, turning your gaze out toward the Christmas tree and humming softly, both in acknowledgement and distraction as you dive into deep thought.

You haven’t been this bad anxiety-wise for... god,  _ years _ . Usually, you only get this twitchy and tactile-sensitive when the need to transfer cities kicked in…

_ Ah. _ You nod to yourself, pressing your chin more firmly into your knees for a second. You’d claimed this place as a home for yourself just a few days ago, a more permanent sort. And then Sans’... the  _ kiss, _ the concept of something new and something you  _ want  _ so badly but  _ very, very  _ long term, a potentially serious commitment... This must be… resistance?  _ Or withdrawal, _ your rational part offers.

_ Wanderlust withdrawal.  _ Irrational agrees.

Which is silly, really, when you think it through maturely, but it’s not really something you can dismiss away outright. You’d been living a certain way for so long, habits were a terrible thing to break, and for all you knew you might have developed some kind of hormonal response. Like an addiction.

_ Wait, _ you frown to yourself,  _ can a person even  _ **_get_ ** _ addicted to running away? I mean, I guess there’s a chemical response that happens, prompting the fight or flight reaction -- I know adrenaline is involved, maybe there’s one that specifically favors flight... _

“gold piece for your thoughts.” Sans asks softly, after a few long moments of silence between you.

“Not worth it.” you quirk a quick grin his way. “Thinking about Halloween.”

“believable,” he allows, “but if you don’t mind me saying so, i wouldn’t be surprised if it was actually something else.”

You shrug your good shoulder, turning your eyes down to the snow in front of the stoop, a sheepish smile forming on your face. “You got me. Just… self reflection. I’m not very good at it. Out of practice I guess.”

He’s quiet for a moment, though you can hear the rustling fabric of his jacket as he leans back on his arms, the soft clack of bone against wood when his hands hit the stoop. When you glance out of the corner of your eye at him, his head is tilted back and his gaze is focused upward, toward the distant ceiling of the cavern. You quietly recognize the look on his face; seems you’re not the only one indulging in some heavy thoughts this early morning.

“...do you miss the surface?” he finally asks, and you can’t quite mentally define his tone of voice. It’s not  _ wistful _ , per se, nor is it  _ accusing _ , or even all that  _ questioning _ , really. It’s not  _ detached _ , but nor is it too  _ invested _ … It’s kind of like he’s asking you what time it is, or if you’d like a cup of tea. He’s just asking a fact.

“...I miss things about it.” You admit, nodding into your knees again. “I’ll probably miss them for a long time, if I ever get over them at all. But before you ask, it’s not enough to make me second guess wanting to stay down here.”

“what do you miss most?”

You don’t hesitate. “Dawn. My best friend Dawn, not-- well, I mean, I miss dawn as in sunrises too, but I miss her the most. She’s been such an important part of my life for so long, that…” you swallow, curling tighter in on yourself and feeling your eyes burn, and your chest tighten. “Knowing I’ll never see her again, or even ever  _ talk to her _ again…” you take a breath, and slowly release it. “It’s hard.”

It sounds very shallow to your own ears, very impersonal, but you know (and you know that he knows) that that is only because if it digs any deeper than that, you will  _ break _ .

He grasps your hand with his again and squeezes tightly, and you squeeze back and refuse to let go. This handclasp says everything that both of you can’t bring yourselves to say aloud.

_ We may never be enough, but we can still try, _ from him.

_ You are trying, and that will be enough eventually, even if it isn’t today, _ from you.

_ You are not alone,  _ unanimously, from both of you.


	40. A Hallowed Evening

**** The day passes in quiet bustle, while you help Sans put together various sweet treats for the trick or treaters that will be coming in the evening. Grillby's is closed for the evening; you'd been pleasantly surprised when you found out that the reason was that Grillby's daughter Fuku was back in Snowdin for the weekend and the holiday off from her schooling in Hotland. You've yet to meet her, so you vow to swing by tomorrow morning and properly introduce yourself.

Papyrus had been lured into the kitchen by the smells of sweetbread and cinnamon cookies, and the promise of getting to help decorate the latter while you sliced up the former.

It's only when you pick up the knife that you feel a shudder run down your spine, and you have to pause and look down at your suddenly trembling fingers. The tip of the knife is tracing lazy, uneven circles in the air as you hold it, and you have to take a moment to  _ breathe _ , to press your hands against the counter and ground yourself in this moment, this place, this body--

And then it's passed, and you breathe a sigh of relief and proceed to smartly dice up the veggies you're planning on stir frying up for dinner. If either of the brothers notice your temporary loss of control, they choose not to mention it.

The day wanes into evening, the light around Snowdin dimming steadily until all of the candles and Christmas lights flicker on seemingly at once, casting warm golden orange light everywhere they can reach. You giggle indulgently at Papyrus’ elaborate costume: a pirate hat sits crookedly perched on top of his skull, and each limb seems differently accoutred. His left arm is wrapped messily in toilet paper mummy wrappings, his right arm in form fitting black ‘ninja’ garb, his left leg is tucked squarely in a cowboy boot, and his right leg bears a pirate's peg leg decoration.

(He had actually popped his lower leg off for this design choice, and you'd nearly had a heart attack at the sight until they'd explained it was okay. Sans had demonstrated by popping one of his hands off at the wrist and handing it over to you. It still made you a bit queasy, but you're at least comforted that they're not hurt by doing it.)

(When you’d calmed down some, Sans had confided in you that he'd been holding off on several occasions whenever you'd asked him for a hand with something. You'd smacked him upside the head  with his own hand and snorted unattractively.)

You take your place beside Sans on the front steps of the house, the treat bowl balancing precariously on one of your legs and your other leg hooked up so your knee is under your chin. The first straggling little monster children stumbling through the snow, giggling and dressed in each other's clothes and with colors smeared across their faces to make them look more fearsome, bring a soft smile to your face. You recognize Kid bouncing along with his friends, a fiercely vivacious smile on his face. The little bear child beside him (Vivienne, you think, though she prefers being called Vivi) is carrying a second bag, one you assume is Kid’s, since he can't carry his own.

Seems his mom relented and the little twerp was out on good behavior.

“Hey, kiddos.” You greet with a welcoming grin. “Come on up, enough for everyone.”

You hand each child a cookie and a sweetbread slice as they wander up to the doorstep. Sans has disappeared back inside briefly, possibly to start another batch of cookies in the oven since your little treats are incredibly popular around town. He shuffles back out beside you right as Vivi pauses to bite her lip and stare wonderingly up at you.

“Miss,” she starts politely, “did you really save Kid’s life?”

The other children clump closer around you all in eagerness to hear your answer, and for a few seconds you feel like a deer in headlights. There's awe and glee and, almost,  _ hero worship _ on these small faces, like they've never expected to be so close to an actual  _ hero _ . 

“She did!” Kid proudly exclaims. “I was gonna fall from the bridge over a drop-off, and she rushed forward and caught hold of me before I dropped. It was super scary.”

You cast a frantic glance at Sans, who observes the situation with a calm efficiency while the kids let out varying sounds of delight. When he meets your eyes, you almost desperately mouth  _ can I deflect to you _ and he nods almost imperceptibly, and relief floods you.

“Well,” you start, your voice pitchy and mildly overwhelmed as they all turn as one to focus on you again. “I could've fallen myself just as easily, you know, so really we  _ both  _ owe our thanks to Sans, right Kid?”

The gaggle of children looks mildly disappointed by your answer, casting looks between you and Sans as though trying to decide whether they should really treat  _ Sans,  _ a known, lazy, joking entity in Snowdin town, as a hero over  _ you _ , a relatively new and human and still interesting possible storybook entity. The only differing face is Kid’s, and he’s blinking up at you with confusion-to-realization on his face.

You tuck some of your bangs behind your ear to get them out of your face in a nervous gesture, biting your knuckle on the way down, before Vivi perks up with an understanding noise.

“Oh! You gotta be  _ modest  _ to be a hero!”

The other children let out similar sounds of delighted agreement, as you internally wilt a little bit. There's likely no convincing them now. Your shoulders are inching up toward your ears, and you can feel adrenaline starting to flow through your system, because--

_ \--you’re not a hero you’re not a hero you’re not a hero you’re not a hero-- _

“Nuh-uh!” Kid is standing beside you now, his shoulders pulled back and a look of frantic, righteous indignation on his face, “Undyne’s totally a hero, and she’s loud and proud about it! You don't gotta be modest to be a hero!”

You know that he’s likely trying to act in your defense, but he’s also going about it the wrong way; while he might be trying to deflect attention away from you, all he’s really managing is painting you more squarely into a corner, because heroes don’t have to be modest, but no one has said that--

**_\--you’re not a hero you’re not a hero you’re not a hero you’re not a hero--_ **

“some people don’t wanna be called heroes, kiddos.” Sans speaks up from behind you, and Kid gives a small yelp and hops down from the stoop to join the crowd of kids again. You’re trembling openly now, and your fingers ache with how tightly you’ve got them clasped in your lap -- your knuckles are white, and it feels like your eyes are glued to the straining, shaking digits. Sans plops down next to you and presses his shoulder firmly against yours, though his gaze is directed at the kids, and he’s got a lazy grin on his face. “heroes get expected to do more heroic things. and heroic things are  _ scary _ things, first and foremost.”

He’s doing a much better job of playing it cool than you are right now, but you lean more heavily against him and focus on breathing, and on the familiar warmth he’s giving off, and the promise that he’s  _ there _ and you’re not  _ alone _ and everything is going to be  _ okay _ \--

“Is she alright?” a tiny, fuzzy little fox child asks -- it’s one of the triplets, one of the three snow-fox kits, with their fur in permanent snowy winter coat form, and normally you’re able to focus enough to see the difference between them but for right now you’re too focused on breathing and not-- not doing this, not having a  _ fucking  _ PTSD attack in front of a bunch of  _ kids _ . “She smells kinda funny.”

“She smells afraid.” the second of the triplets interjects, tightening their paws around their little candy bag. 

“Is she scared of us?” the third one asks, inching closer to their siblings with wide, uncertain eyes.

“no, kids,” Sans has wrapped his hands around yours, carefully pulling your fingers apart despite the way your joints have locked up, “she’s not afraid of you.” How can he sound so calm? How does he manage this? You’d heard him practically falling apart this morning, and yet here he is, holding not only himself together but you as well. “it’s just hard for her to think about what happened. she’s trying not to let it show. she doesn’t wanna freak you out with it.”

To your great surprise, Kid inches forward and takes a seat on your other side, leaning up against you and ducking his head down, biting his lip. “Yo, it… It really  _ was _ scary.” he admits, softly, glancing up at the other kids. “I c’n get why it’s hard to think about.”

“I’m sorry, miss.” Vivi bites at her lip, shuffling her feet in the snow, “I shouldn’t’ve asked.”

“We’re sorry too!” the triplets chorus in imperfect harmony, along with the other two children (a wolf cub and a bunny child), as they all shuffle forward to press furry paws against your knees and legs and any spot they can reach. The tiny hands radiate a similar kind of warmth, close to the type that Sans is putting off, if not quite as intense, and they’re brief but soothing.

You finally manage to pull in a full breath, looking up to meet each of their gazes. You will only ever have one chance to do this, you know, so you have to do it  _ now _ , even though you’re afraid, or you never will.

You start, your voice still a little bit shaky and faint, but the kids around you are looking up at you with avid attention, “A hero is just a good person in the right place at the right time who does what needs to be done. The people who you look up to as storybook heroes… are still people, first and foremost. They can get scared, they can get hurt… and most importantly, they can be killed.” you swallow heavily, squeezing Sans’ hand for stability. Somehow, your voice comes out steady and serious, “We came very, very close to dying.”

_ Closer than I hope you ever have to know. _

Kid inches closer to your side, and you wrap an arm around him to pull him in close and safe, despite the fact that you’re trembling almost as badly as he is. You continue; “I don’t personally view myself as a hero, in that situation or any other. Others might argue otherwise, but it’s not a title I feel I can apply to myself.” The faint, weak smile you manage to put on your face feels like an admission of weakness, but it’s something you need to do. You soften your voice, into something quiet, and more certain. “I just try to do what I can, where I can, to make the world a little nicer.”

The kids all give solemn little nods, tentatively reaching forward to press their paws against your leg again before pulling away, politely thanking you for the sweets and bouncing off into the snow to go collect more.

“personally,” Sans starts softly beside you, once they’re out of earshot. “i think our definitions of heroism might be a bit mismatched. but it’s your decision, gumdrop. i won’t try to force anything on that matter.”

You lean your weight over until your entire side is pressed against his, and you’re so worked up already that the faint buzz of magic within his bones almost doesn’t even register to you -- all you know is that he’s warm, and he’s solid, and he’s  _ there _ , waiting for you no matter what.

“I don’t _ want _ to be a hero,” you admit, softly, resting your head on his shoulder and letting out a faint sigh when he leans his own head against yours. “I just want to survive.” A faint sound, almost like a laugh, worms its way out of you, and you gesture weakly around at the general atmosphere of Snowdin, encompassing the quiet of a winter wonderland town, the ambience of a fire burning late at night and knitted quilts and friendly people. “I just want… Something quiet. Something comfortable.”

“then it’s yours.” Sans nods. “we’re happy to have you.”

“It’s not even been a month,” you grump up toward him, “How can you be so sure?”

“...” he squeezes your hand, and you hear him sigh softly, “...the soul knows what it wants.”

You huddle closer to him and peer out into the golden-orange fiery glow that has settled over the expanse of the town. There are little bundles of kids shuffling through the snow, chattering cheerfully and comparing treats. It still feels so foreign to you, considering you grew up in a day and age where kids didn’t go play on the streets without strict adult supervision. But peering around, you can see parents hanging out of doorways, lithe and slim figures draped over windowsills, broad and bulky ones sitting on stoops like you and Sans, and it feels… nice.

There’s an air of innocent abandon in the air tonight, but you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that every adult in town is keeping a watchful eye, making sure nothing goes wrong.

Snowdin feels so safe. It feels like something you shouldn’t be allowed to take claim of, and yet, everyone around you seems to already accept you as their own. Grillby’s words echo briefly in your mind, filling your soul once again with the treacherous, tremulous happiness that felt like it was stolen, and yet you never wanted to give it up.

_ You are a Snowdin citizen… no matter what else. _

“...What does your soul want, Sans?” you ask softly, breaking the silence between you. Sans tightens his hold on your hand again in a brief squeeze, before you feel him give a rumbly, body-shaking chuckle.

“nothing more than this.” he replies, with a lazy sort of indulgence, and you feel your cheeks flare up in a wild and uncontrollable blush as he glances out of the corner of his eye-sockets to grin at you. His eyes soften, as does his smile, and he squeezes one more time, before turning his gaze back out over the town. “just... being able to look toward the future and hope for something better than today is enough for me. i have you to thank for that, gumdrop.”

“B-But I haven’t done anything--” you stammer, pulling back enough to turn yourself toward him properly, your eyes wide and your heart hammering.

“you’ve done plenty. no matter what gets thrown your way, you meet it with almost... _ impractical  _ positivity. it’s... infectious, i guess. and besides, being unhappy isn’t worth it, remember?” he gives one more short, incredulous chuckle, like he didn’t expect to mean it and was surprised when it came out true. “you... you just…” he shakes his head, “you amaze me. your soul is a symphony waiting to start, a vast and incredible thing, yet you take such… genuine  _ joy _ in the little, simple pleasures of life. like making tea in the mornings, and saying good morning to people on your way to work.” he ducks his head down, giving another soft chuckle, though this one is edged with something vulnerable and sad. “i’d... forgotten how to do that.”

You press your shoulder against his again, pleased when it doesn’t immediately send warning shivers down your spine (though,  _ immediately _ is the key word there. You still shiver, it’s just not right away.). “We’re two messed up people, huh?” you ask, rhetorically, resting your head against his shoulder.

He doesn’t respond. The atmosphere around you seems to pause, all of the kids stopping in their tracks and several of the adults around the square going still before turning toward the edge of town -- Sans goes stiff as a board beside you -- and then you feel it. An intense sort of power, one that almost has its own gravitational force, like Sans’ magic when he really let loose, but rather than the concentrated sense of crushing force that you’ve associated with Sans, this magical signature is radiating power in a more…  _ large _ sense. It doesn’t immediately strike you as a terrible danger (despite the instinctual probably-PTSD prompted response) but Sans immediately wraps an arm around your waist--

There’s a surge of power surrounding you both -- why is he teleporting right now? What is going on? Why is he-- why is he holding on so tightly? Why is he  _ trembling _ ?

You reappear in darkness, and the surge comes again before you can form these questions. Sans is gone, and he’s left you wherever he teleported to in the first place. Despite your initial urge for confused panic, you force a deep breath and close your eyes, counting to thirty in slow, measured, metronomic beats. It’s both for the purpose of calming your heart rate and for letting your eyes adjust to the sudden darkness around you.

“A happy Hallows Eve, everyone!” You hear, and you reason that you’re still in Snowdin, because you can definitely still feel that immense magical power sweeping its way through. Sans must have panicked to teleport you somewhere without warning, considering how careful he’s been with his own magic over the last couple of days.

When you open your eyes again, you can barely make out shapes in the gloom. The room you’re in is small, and musty smelling, with vague outlines of a desk and chair, and a rectangular shape you think might be a bed. There's also a dusty old exercise machine, a treadmill, you think. It's hard to tell in the darkness. 

You inch toward the wall that is most likely to have a door and feel around at about the appropriate height, relieved when you find the doorknob. Turning it lets you poke your head out, and--

You’re looking out and down over the skeleton brother’s living room. Looking to your right, you can see the ironic painting, the door to Papyrus’ room, and the stairs. All at once, it makes a terrible kind of sense why Sans would teleport you without warning.

He was hiding you.

In his own room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long, roundabout thank you incoming. :P
> 
>  
> 
> September 20th, 2016
> 
> A new document was created on google drive. Humorously, the title was set to “That One Fic We Don’t Talk About”. Initial votes went out among the authoress’ close friends who were aware of her decided endeavor. Would this be a satirical mimicry of a story, or a legitimate attempt? The votes came in “legitimate”. It was still a fully self-indulgent, happy joke, something she could turn her attention to when she needed a distraction, but it would be treated with the wordage of a true story.
> 
> As a further joke, she added to the top of the document:
> 
> _Also known as Tini’s “Help I wanna bone the skeleton” advice column._
> 
> Well, friends. One year, and over a hundred and twenty five thousand words later… we still have not boned the skeleton.
> 
> What we have done, however, is… I personally think… a much more incredible thing. This past year has been an exercise in emotion for me, an exploration of my own personal coping mechanisms and a revival in my love for writing. What started as a fun silly joke story has grown and blossomed into an experience that, in fact, almost never saw outside viewership.
> 
> Thirteen chapters in, three months after first starting to write. December 13th, 2016. I lost almost 20 thousand words worth of work, two months of effort. I was able to get it back, luckily, but the experience left me shaken.
> 
> I debated, for a long while, whether I would post after that. I couldn’t stand the thought of the chance of losing it again, but this was never intended to be a story for anyone other than me. I always meant for it to be a personal thing, something I would always have for myself. I didn’t want it to become something that belonged more to others, something I was doing for others. This story is, and has been, my own.
> 
> But over the past year, and especially since I started posting it, it became clear that I could keep it for my own, but also share it. The ebbs and flows of socially driven anxiety have been something I’ve had a personal relationship with for a long time, and it was a wonderful release, being able to put my day-to-day stresses and the turbulencies of my life into words, bleeding emotion into the story that had only ever been meant as a comfort. And chapter by chapter, week by week… people came. And people read. And people related.
> 
> This story has thus far been an experience in writing, and, I hope, an experience in reading. Every kudos, every bookmark, every comment has been a chance for me to see the effect it’s had on others, and to share this… wonderful thing I’ve found for myself.
> 
> And so long as your paths coincide with mine, I’m happy to have the company.
> 
> Thank you for joining me.
> 
>  
> 
> Life is a story. Keep on writing it. ✌


	41. Little Things, Big Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry were you expecting drama? Nah have hurt/comfort/fluff instead.

Knowing where you are does make it a little easier to breathe through the vice around your lungs. You take a less cursory examination of the room once the door is open enough to let the light in, noting that the faint and unpleasant sense you'd gotten of the place has magnified in the pale blue-orange light of a Snowdin evening. You sight a lamp without a shade on the desk and move over to flick it on, letting the door shut behind you again, having no desire to be visible in case the King (for who else would send Sans panicking for your safety so quickly?) chances peering in the windows downstairs.

The lamplight is dull and impersonal -- the bulb is dirty, and it casts shadows everywhere that only manage to heighten your unease.

There's a thick layer of dust on the treadmill, and varying dirt, slush, and scorch marks littering the floor and several of the walls. Candy wrappers, paper bags marked ‘Grillby's’, crumpled up papers and other detritus are tossed in the corners, and one corner of the room has enough trash in a little whirlwind that it's self-sustaining. There's loose socks and crumpled up t-shirts in various places on the floor, and a mountain of undone laundry that must have built up since the last time you did it for him (God, that was a week and a half ago at least, probably more). 

The room itself smells stale, with a greater staleness seeping from the bed sheets which lie in a crumpled mess at the end of the bed. Even with the light on, the air seems…  _ gray  _ is the only good word. It's heavy, and almost too quiet, despite the whorl of trash in the corner. 

You hear the rise of voices around the town again as the kids let out shouts of greeting for the King, and as adults toss their own respectful greetings. The tension in the air is almost palpable. You glance out of the one window in the room -- a sight of nothing but trees and forest, good -- and tentatively sit on the edge of the bed, taking a breath to further calm your heart and to wait.

This was not expected, but you do your best not to overthink it all. The citizens of Snowdin would have had multiple days to go get the King if they were so inclined, and none of them had shown any ill will toward you in that time. It's simply a surprise, with the holiday, and a coincidence, that he would visit so shortly after… what happened in Waterfall.

Sans will handle it. The others won’t sell you out. It’ll be fine.

You will not die this day.

You give a soft whine in the back of your throat, letting yourself fall back across the bed and pressing your hands to your face with a jittery sort of numbness across your skin. You already feel frayed at the edges and really didn't need this! You just wanted to have a nice calm Halloween!

You pull your hands away and sigh, opening your eyes again. 

…

There's…

There's a paper taped to the ceiling over the bed. You're side-on to it right now, but you tilt your head in interest to try and get a better view--

Your heart thumps loudly in your chest as you make out the words. 

> _ still going forward. _ _   
>  _ _ haven't reset. _
> 
> _ she's still here. _

She's still here. “She” has to be you. 

That reassurance is right over the pillow, it must be the first thing he sees when he wakes up every morning, the first confirmation he  _ looks for.  _ That he’s still in this timeline, that you’re still here. That things haven’t reset, that--

The expansive concept of what a reset at this point would mean crashes over you all at once. All of this, everything that’s happened to you so far, feeling as ephemeral and fleeting as a bad dream to you. No sticking memories. You would never have met Ellie, or Toriel, or Papyrus. You would never have met Sans. Maybe you would have left Ebott entirely before they got free. Maybe they would never have gotten free. You might never have or never would have met them.

You feel your throat tighten as emotion rises up and threatens to overwhelm you; the sense of nearly drowning, the feeling of clawing toward the one glimpse of starlight in the depths of an ocean, following bubbles that floated further and further away as your lungs burned and your vision went spotty; a fire in a snowstorm, the terrible and precious warmth in a world that wanted to freeze you from outside in; the lighthouse on stormy seas… hope that even when things are bad, there is a way out. There is a chance.  _ This _ is the reassurance he seeks out every time he wakes up, the one thing he wants to be sure of first.  _ This _ is the thing that brings him comfort.

_This_ is the emotion that fills him every time he looks at you. Something different from the prison of resets. A chance that feels stolen. A chance that he has no guarantee won't  _be_ stolen.  


Your hand is over your mouth, and you can feel your eyes burning. The depth of his regard for you is… a bit intimidating, and a little astonishing. You have to push yourself up and break your gaze with the paper, sitting upright and shaking the lightheadedness from your head.

There’s raucous laughter outside, now, echoing through the center of the small town, deep and immense and almost rattling your teeth. You’re not sure if you’re ready to make the necessary association that this laugh, this deep and welcoming guffaw, belongs to the same monster that is putting out a maelstrom’s worth of magic. You know that you really ought to be worried about the King in a general sense and that it would probably not be best to go down and greet him, but…

“Ah! Sans!” The King’s voice chimes, with a welcoming sort of cheer. “I believe this one is for you. And I was requested to add a particular little bird’s regard, she stated she will likely be a few days in the Capitol. I was unaware that you were on friendly terms with the Royal Messenger...”

“oh, ells? yeah, we’ve been hanging out a bit recently, sir.”

You suck in a quick breath between your teeth. There’s something a bit… disconcerting, hearing that particular note of ease and unfettered calmness in Sans’ voice. He had been trembling like a leaf as he held onto you mere moments ago. And while you like to think that you’re getting to see small flashes of real emotions from him, while you want to believe that you don’t necessarily need to be worried about trusting him... 

You’re not sure how you feel with the extra confirmation that Sans can lie  _ very convincingly _ .

_ But that’s just it. _ Interpersonal Relationships points out.  _ He’s protecting you. He’s lying to the king right now so you’ll be safe. He brought you somewhere he thought you would be safe in. _

_ Or he brought you somewhere you can’t escape from,  _ your Anxiety whispers, cruelty dripping off of every word.  _ What’s to stop him from bringing the King up here? _

_ The door’s unlocked. He’s not keeping you here.  _ Rationality tries to calmly point out.

_ But can you leave? _ Anxiety simpers.

You feel a knot form in your stomach. Even when the door is unlocked, the furthest you can go is the top landing. You can’t risk being in the view lines from the windows downstairs. You can’t leave the house until the King is gone.

And if the King has any reason to enter the house... 

_ Stop it. _ Professional Image speaks up, and you force yourself to breathe.  _ Woolgathering isn’t going to help anything. _

_ We have to trust. _ Interpersonal Relationships insists.  _ And when this is over, we’ll let him know that it was a little bit of a bad move, bringing us here with no warning. _

Right. You nod to yourself. You’ll talk to him like a normal person, address your concerns, come up with a compromise, and you’ll both do better in the future.

_ As long as we get to that point. As long as he hasn’t decided he’s not interested in waiting for you and your inconsistent, anxiety-riddled and panic-attack prone ass. _

_ No, bad. Stop. I’m not letting the anxiety win right now. _

_ I don't think you have a say in it.  _ Anxiety smugly murmurs, and you feel the lump in your throat growing more and more solid. You close your eyes and breathe slowly through your nose, focusing on the off-beat  _ th-thump _ of your heart and refusing to acknowledge the bubbling sense of an oncoming anxiety attack. You can’t help it. This  _ room _ is just… 

...it’s just… 

It’s making your skin _crawl._ You feel like there are hundreds of bugs crawling on you. Like your skin is peeling off in tiny little strips.

It’s  _ bleak _ . It feels hopeless. It feels far more like a prison cell than the generalized prison you know that you’re in, trapped in the underground.

And the worst part is, you can immediately dismiss the thought of ‘helping’; this is a battle you can support him on, but it’s not your battle to bear. 

You’ve missed out on a good chance to eavesdrop on the conversations outside while fighting down the uneasy anxiety that the room itself, and the stress of this all, and the  _ immense fucking dickery  _ that the pure  _ wave of magic _ is doing to your  _ quite apparent  _ Magic-triggered PTSD, is causing you. Nonetheless, it only takes a few seconds for you to listen and confirm that the King is still out there, and the conversation  _ sounds _ like it’s still generally good humor…

You can hear Sidney’s faintly flirty croon outside now, greeting the King with a particular sense of determination that helps, if only a little bit. You definitely know you trust Sidney. Sidney, who never once acted differently around you, not enough to make you uneasy. Sidney, who wore her heart on her sleeve. Sidney, who had only taken twenty minutes to decide she wanted to claim you as her own, and decided she wanted to keep you.

Sidney, who had been unfailing and unfaltering in her support of you. Sidney, who had blithely waved away your nerves about being found out.

_ It's okay, it's okay, it's okay... _

Sidney reminds you of Dawn. Only good folks remind you of Dawn. You trust people who remind you of Dawn. She won't sell you out.

_ It's okay, it's okay, it's okay... _

The minutes are crawling past. It's getting harder to focus on your breathing, and you find your eyes flicking back up to the paper taped to the ceiling. He views you with such high esteem.  _ You _ , of all the unlikely, messed up people. You, who can barely handle hugging him right now.

You, who  _ don't goddamn deserve him.  _

Your eyes burn with the effort it's taking not to just completely fall apart.

You're not okay. 

You're not okay, you're not okay, you're  _ not okay _ \--

It takes an almost embarrassingly short time before you're wrapped tightly around yourself, shaking from head to toe, quietly whimpering. Your mouth opens almost without your permission, and a surge of something wild and desperate rises up and out of your soul-- you-- you need--

“ _ Sans... _ ”

It comes out as a pathetically soft plea, and you're not sure what you think will happen from it, but you definitely don't expect the sudden surge of magic and the immediate flicker of cyan magic that lights up the room around you. Within seconds, Sans has flicked his eyes around looking for some kind of threat, before he's taken one good look at you and is immediately leaning down to pull you into a gentle, warm, encompassing bear hug.

“hey, hey, it's okay.” he murmurs into your hair, and you let out a pitiful wheeze, raising your arms to cling to him. “i'm here. i'm here. everything is okay. you're here, and you're safe, and i won't let anything hurt you. the king doesn't suspect anything, gumdrop, or if he does then he's not pushing. you're okay...”

He's carding one bony hand through the hair at the back of your head. The gentle pressure of his fingers is doing wonders at helping to ground you. 

“H-How did you…” you finally manage to wheeze, faintly and behind a desperate breath. Your hands are trembling while they're tangled in the soft blue fabric of his jacket. “...know I… n-needed…”

He lets out another soft, soothing sound, hushing you and pressing his head against the side of yours, gently swaying with you. “shhh… you called for me.” 

You let out a soft bubble of wheezy, nearly uncontrollable giggles, clinging tighter to him while he moves to sit beside you on the bed. You're still high-keyed and shaking, but there's so much magic coming from the King outside that even the fitful and strong brushes of Sans’ magic are coming across as soothing and small in comparison.

“I c-can… barely talk… ab-bove a wh-whisper… r-right now...” you point out weakly. “Y-You c-c-can't have… h-heard me.”

“you called for me.” he says again, his voice steady and calming. “pretty much everyone out there felt it, gumdrop. but i was the only one it was  _ for. _ ” He's pressing soothing strokes up and down the muscles on either side of your spine, lightening up every time he passes over the line of one of your ribs, and his free hand is holding your head steady and rubbing small circles into the muscles just under the base of your skull. You can feel your muscles turning to a pleasant kind of gelatin under his ministrations.

One of these days you're going to legitimately question how he can practically seep the tension right out of your body, but for right now you just… allow yourself to be pulled gently into his lap.

“I'm… s...sorry… that I'm like this…” to your relief,  it comes out as a soft, breathless laugh and you feel yourself curling closer to the warmth he's giving off. It's only been a couple of days but you've already missed being this close to him.  It's just a shame to you that it takes an undoubtedly larger magical threat for you to shake off the instinctual tremors whenever you're near enough to Sans to sense his magic.

Still. You guess it's kind of like... the difference between thinking he is the biggest threat that could (not necessarily  _ would _ , but  _ could _ ) hurt you, and thinking he's your best possible defense against this new and definitely more immense and legitimate threat.

You hadn't considered just how powerful the King would be. God, you're  _ really _ powerless in comparison.

“...you're fine, gumdrop.” The hand at your neck stills and he just cradles your head for a few blissful seconds, while you lean into him. He presses a quick peck to your forehead, right over your right temple. “i think sidney might refuse to let you go tomorrow, though. when you pushed out that distress call… the quick glance i got of her face before i came up here was… well. i won't grace it with a description.”

_ that expression on your face… well, i won't grace it with a description. _

You shiver violently, feeling a sharp and sudden out-of-body moment, and press closer to him to try and ground yourself in this moment again. It takes a few seconds to return to some semblance of normal.

“I hate… feeling like this.” You mutter into his shoulder. “After years… and years… you'd think I'd get used to it. But no… it still sucks.”

He makes a soft sound of affirmation, squeezing around your waist. “i know the feeling.”

“... I'm sorry I'm making you wait for me.” You offer a small, sad smile against one of his neck vertebrae, “You're way better than I deserve. I don't understand what you see in me.”

“you want me to tell you?” he asks softly, with a soft rumble of a laugh against your chest. “it could take up the rest of tonight. take up the time until the king leaves.”

“No, I mean… I have some idea what it is.” You give a weak laugh of your own. “I just don't really understand  _ why… _ ” you pull back after a moment, looking up at him and biting your lip. You deliberately let your eyes turn further upward toward the paper again, and you feel him tense for a second or so before he gives a rueful little chuckle.

“oh. uh. that.”

“Mhm.”

“is it weird? i can take it down, i mean, it's…”

“No,” you shake your head, meeting his gaze again. “It helps you. I just… Why  _ me _ ?”

He squeezes around your waist again. “ _ because  _ you're you. because you… you look forward, even when things are bad. you remind me that forward is a way people  _ can  _ look.”

You wrap your arms around him and press your forehead against his shoulder, the trembling easing down as all of your muscles sag with high-keyed exhaustion. The wave of magic outside is still there, but  _ fuck it,  _ you can admit to yourself that he helps you feel _ safe _ in a way that rivals the unique way that Dawn always had. He presses another peck to your cheek, content to just hold you for a few moments.

“you… gonna be okay?” he finally asks. You can hear the conversation outside drifting to a close, and feel the magic the King is putting off starting to move again.

“Mm." you hum a soft affirmative noise. "Stay?”

“o’course.”

He shifts with you, pulling you back until you both can lay down, tangled up together. The light outside wanes, and your body grows heavier and more relaxed. At some point you realize you're starting to actually doze off.

“Sans?” you quietly mumble, a soft slur on your tongue.

“mhm?”

You curl closer to him and press a sleepy kiss to his mouth. It lingers on your lips, like a promise.

“Thank you.” You whisper. “For being you... For putting up with me...  For  _ waiting _ for me.”

He kisses you back, seeming to grow equally heavy against you. It's slow, and indulgent. It's sweet. It's home.

“til the end of time.” He promises, barely a breath between you.

You fall asleep with a smile on your lips.


	42. A Pleasant Night, a Not-So-Pleasant Wake Up Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do you call a fish with no eyes?
> 
> A fsh!
> 
> What do you call a fish with one eye?
> 
> Undyne annoyed to see you, that's what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in the eye before the absolute storm that tomorrow is going to be, so here, have your chapter a day early.

It's much to your pleasant surprise when you wake up at 4:17 the next morning, not having had a single nightmare through the entire night. Your eyes are crusty and you feel like you're moving at half speed as you yawn and blink yourself awake. Your muscles are slow to respond.

The heavy, warm body curled around you brings a soft, blissfully goofy smile to your face. There's a dribble of drool against your shoulder where Sans has pressed his face. He has one arm cushioned underneath your neck and one draped over your waist, holding you loosely to his chest like a teddy bear. It feels safe, and secure, and you don't think you've ever felt this comfortable before.

Gosh… you never realized how nice it was to be the little spoon. Dawn was the only person you ever really got  _ that close  _ to physical intimacy with before, and the simple fact was that she was  _ kind of _ absurdly tiny in comparison to you, so you'd always been the big spoon.

Sans is such a nice complimentary size. You can't quite stop yourself from letting him pull you back to his chest. The soft, happy sigh he heaves out ruffles your hair, and you bite down on the sudden and intense surge of just…

You love this man.

Holy  _ fuck _ , you love him so much.

You carefully flip yourself over to be facing him, curling in against his chest and studying his face. It’s so tempting to snuggle down and go back to sleep, but there's still a part of you that just wants to memorize this moment in its entirety. The soft feeling of the welcoming warmth coming from him, the way that the blue-white glow from Snowdin’s nighttime casts his features into stark relief, even the quiet and gentle magical pulse that you can sense emanating from his soul.

You're… you're not afraid. Not even a little. He's putting off magic, but it's almost soothing, now, like a heartbeat. In comparison to what you felt last night with the King, despite your heightened sensitivity, he feels...  _ You _ feel safe.

You tuck yourself in close and sigh contentedly, smiling when he squeezes you closer and presses his chin to the top of your head. You’ve still got a few hours before you have to wake up, after all, why not let yourself enjoy this?

And then you find out what it was that woke you in the first place.

There's something outside. There's a sound outside that worms into your ear until you realize you're hearing it, beyond the soft and comforting sound of Sans sleeping beside you. Beyond the light wind creaking against the house, beyond the soft bustle of the town waking up.

A faint, carrying echo of metal against metal. 

…

Oh, stars above... You’re gonna have to get up, aren’t you?

You carefully pull free from Sans’ grip, blinking blearily into the darkness, only pausing to press your forehead against his when he stirs as you pull away. You give a soft, tuneless hum until he’s settled again, and pad barefoot over the thin carpet to the door to his room. You scoop up your boots from where they’ve been placed neatly next to the door.

(Sans must have snuck them off of you and moved them over there sometime last night, since you remember falling asleep with your heavy boots on.)

Whatever the source of the sound is, it’s getting louder. You drag your feet as you feel your way along in the darkness toward the stairs, and then down them. You only pull your boots on once you’re downstairs and in view of the door. 

Covering your mouth while you yawn, you shuffle over to the door and check the locks. Paps must have remembered last night, they’re nice and flipped… You undo the chain and flip the lock on the door to step outside, scrubbing your eyes with the ball of your thumb to try and wake up a bit more.

If there’s one good thing about falling asleep in your clothes from last night, it’s the fact that you’re still wearing one of Sans’ spare jackets. You really should get it back to him sometime soon. If he’ll take it. But as it is, you can step out into the snow and not immediately feel the pre-morning chill.

The metal-on-metal noise is getting louder. You scan the town square, seeing the faint light of the Christmas tree but no signs of anyone wandering around… at least, until you turn toward the road out of town--

_ Shit. _ You recognize that armor.

You don’t even get the chance to duck back inside, because Undyne speeds up almost as soon as you’re on the stoop. It’s clear that she’s seen you, and going back inside at this point would not only be an admission of weakness but also downright  _ rude _ .

So instead, you weakly raise your good hand to wave at her as she approaches, clenching your teeth around the tension in your chest.

She storms directly toward the steps up to the door, and stops right in front of you, pulling off her helmet mid-step and already snarling at you with her too-damn-sharp teeth. There's dark blue mud stains on her feet and shin guards.

“ _ You _ .” she hisses, thankfully keeping her voice down. There’s an oddly intense scent of woodsmoke surrounding her -- it itches at your nose, and you really don’t want to sneeze in her face, holy shit, that would just make this worse. “It’s  _ your _ fault. I’m blaming  _ you _ for this.”

“Uh.” you swallow, blinking up at her (she’s a good inch taller than you, even a few steps down). “Okay?” You raise your hands in a placating gesture as more of an automatic reflex than anything else. “I’m… sorry? Not arguing, but, uh… What did I apparently do?”

“If it weren’t for  _ you _ , Papyrus wouldn’t be upset with me! He wouldn’t have walked out on our cooking lesson! I wouldn’t have been upset and my  _ house _ wouldn’t have  _ burned down-- _ !”

“Oh-- Oh my god.” you lift a hand to your mouth, your eyes wide. “Your  _ house _ burned down?! You weren’t hurt, were you? Do you need water? Are you dehydrated? Did you breathe in smoke?!”

Distantly, there’s a part of you wondering loudly in the back of your mind  _ what the actual fuck are you doing? _ But you’re immediately more concerned with Undyne’s well-being, because she  _ smells _ strongly of smoke, and she’s a fish, right? Fire and heat and smoke with a fish doesn’t equal anything other than cooked fish, in your experience, and no matter what she’s done or is currently doing, she’s still a living sentient person.

Plus, she’s Papyrus’ friend. You have to believe that that’s worth a lot. You value Papyrus’ judgement.

“Wh--” Undyne looks briefly taken aback, before her brows furrow back into her annoyed and angry look again. “Shut up, just-- shut up! I’m not here to be  _ babied _ by the likes of  _ you _ . I’m just here to get my spare bathroom stuff because all of  _ my _ crap went up in flames!”

“Oh-- okay.” You nod earnestly, gesturing at the door behind you, “Of course. Come on in, go ahead and grab your stuff-- I can make tea if you want. Or food. Have you eaten? No, wait, stupid question, if you walked here from your house then you must have started out a bit after dinner time last night, the ground must have been  _ awfully  _ muddy, the news said it was flooding again--”

She follows you inside, stopping just inside the door, her annoyed look falling away once more into irritated confusion as you continue a soft monologue, more to yourself than to her, hurrying into the kitchen to start up the kettle and to crack a few eggs into the skillet.

You poke your head out of the kitchen a moment later to see her still standing a bit awkwardly in the middle of the living room. With a small sigh, you wave the spatula in her direction, a pointed frown on your face.

“You can go ahead and get comfy, you know. Take off your armor. Sit. I’m  _ making _ you a meal, I expect you to stay until you’ve eaten it.”

She makes an aborted “b” sound, and you think that she was starting to say “But”, but you’ve already ducked back into the kitchen and are minding the stove and the kettle. Your heart is pounding a bit more intensely in your chest than a normal relaxed day would prompt, with your anxiety pinging off little alerts reminding you that she’s so close, and this was a lady who both tried to kill you and helped to save you less than a week ago.

Cooking, at least, helps. It also helps to fall back on your good old standby of ‘refusing to acknowledge the anxiety response until it becomes too big to ignore’.

You hear her in the living room -- at least, you hear the methodical, quiet clanging of metal against metal as she (you presume) takes off her armor. Other sounds reach your ears as you snag the steaming kettle before it can whistle, pulling it off of the heat. Doors upstairs opening. Papyrus’ sleepy voiced question of “HUMAN…?” encourages you to relax your shoulders a bit more.

“Early breakfast, Paps.” you softly call upstairs, “We have a guest.”

“A GUEST…? OH, UNDYNE.” there’s a pause, “WAIT. UNDYNE?”

“why is  _ she _ here?” Sans is markedly less sleepy sounding than Papyrus is, and within seconds and a by-now-familiar surge of magic, he’s standing right by you and clearly taking up a position to guard you.

“Don't be rude.” You murmur toward him, bumping him with your hip to move him as you pour the hot water into a mug with one of the golden flower tea bags. “Her house burned down.”

“Look, I'm just here to get my stuff from the bathroom,” Undyne announces loudly. “But for  _ some _ reason, she's insisting on making food.”

Sans heaves a sigh next to you and spares you a pleading glance, silently begging to confirm that you're aware of what you're doing. You press the tea mug into his hands and start prepping another.

“Because I have severe doubts that you've eaten at all since dinner of last night, and possibly not even that if that was when your house went up.” You say again, feeling like you're trying to explain a simple concept to kindergartners who just aren't understanding it. “It wouldn't be right to send you on your way without making sure you're okay. You at least have a place to go, right?” You add this last question as you pick up the second mug, hip-checking Sans again and nodding toward the food to prompt him to keep an eye on it.

“I--...” Undyne cuts herself off so quickly that you almost question whether she said anything at all. As you turn the corner, you see her studiously staring at the floor. Papyrus is casting uncertain glances between her and you as you walk over to her.

“Undyne…” you trail off. She has spare supplies here. She's Papyrus’ friend. She probably stays here every so often. “... You…  _ do _ have a place to go?”

She turns her head away from you, gritting her teeth. “I'll ask to stay with Gerson.”

Papyrus catches your eye in a helpless plea of a look, and you bite your lip. There's really just… no winning this, is there? 

You sigh. “Y-You know, if--”

“no.” Sans calls from behind you, cutting you off.

“BROTHER, PLEASE.”

“She'd probably be more comfortable in a place she knows…” you admit softly, looking over your shoulder to the kitchen again. “I can stay at the inn for a while.”

“ _ no. _ ” Sans says again, appearing with the frying pan in the kitchen doorway. His expression is pained. “she said she's got a place to stay.”

“She said she'll  _ ask  _ someone for a place to stay, Sans, she's clearly stayed here before--”

“she tried to kill you.”

It comes out as a soft, strained tone. You immediately glance over at Papyrus and Undyne, the former of whom looks confused and concerned and the latter of whom is avoiding everyone's eye contact. You turn back to Sans again and let out a slow breath.

“I know.” You nod. “And I appreciate what you're trying to do, Sans, but…” you look to the floor. “She also helped to save me. And I-- I don't hold grudges, you know? Especially not when someone needs help.” You shrug helplessly. “She'd probably be more comfortable staying somewhere she's already stayed. I don't want to make you choose between friends. I  _ especially  _ don't want you to choose  _ me  _ over someone you've already had as a friend before you you even  _ met _ me.”

“where would she sleep?” Sans asks. There's an unpleasant twist to his fixed smile -- he's not happy with you right now. 

“ Uh. The couch?” you tilt your head, not sure why he's asking that.

“BUT HUMAN, WHERE WOULD  _ YOU  _ SLEEP THEN?” Papyrus asks. You see Undyne bristle, possibly from learning you're giving up your sleeping spot without question? You're not sure. You shrug in response to Papyrus. 

“Wouldn't be the first time I've slept on the floor.” You glance at Sans, “I mean, if I'm not going to the inn.”

“no. no, i don't like this.” Sans is shaking his head.

“You and me both.” Undyne grunts. “I just came here to get my stuff.”

You purse your lips and gesture at the frying pan in Sans’ hands. He grimaces and ducks back into the kitchen to finish up the egg scramble.

You spare one more glance at Papyrus, taking in his unabashedly worried expression. Then a glance at Undyne, who's still avoiding your eyes.

“At least stay for breakfast?” you implore.

“Why?” Undyne asks, finally looking up and staring you down. “Why are you insisting on being so nice to me? We're not friends, we're not even on friendly terms--”

“Because. Generosity and kindness shouldn’t be conditional.” You lean against the nearest wall, biting your lip. “And no matter what happened between us before, you need help  _ now _ . We might not be friends. We might not  _ ever _ be friends. But you  _ are _ Papyrus’ friend, and that's enough for me.” You let your mouth curl into a brief, toothy smile, “Besides. You won’t owe me anything but I just  _ know _ it’ll be itching under your skin, and I think that’s fair recourse for the whole ‘trying to kill me’ thing.”

Undyne huffs out one more annoyed sigh, turning her eyes down toward the floor again and grimacing at your words. You nod once toward Papyrus to indicate that you'll leave the rest to him, and slip back into the kitchen.

Sans is standing rigidly in front of the stove. He isn't happy.

You step over and gently lean yourself against his back in a loose hug, closing your eyes and forcing yourself not to shudder at the turbulence of his magic. He holds for just a few long, torturous seconds before he finally goes slack under your weight, sagging a bit with you. You tuck your chin over his shoulder.

“I didn't have nightmares last night.” You point out softly, squeezing around his waist.

“...yeah. me neither.” He agrees. He's quieter than you would like. You watch him methodically scramble the eggs in the skillet for a moment.

“... If you really don't want her staying, I'll drop it.” you bite your lip. “But if you're just upset that I'm offering up the spot I've been sleeping in… then, um…” you press the lower half of your face into his shoulder, feeling your cheeks heat up. “...I... liked it, last night. And I wouldn't be adverse to it if that became a… temporary solution. If you want.”

He doesn't answer you for a few seconds, but then you feel him lean back against you with a soft, heaving sigh of relief.

“thank the stars you offered first.” He chuckles wearily. “i was  _ so _ worried it'd seem forced or weird if i suggested it, especially with this whole… thing.”

“Are you really against Undyne staying?”

He shakes his head. “nah… it happened a lot in the timelines.”

“Can't say no to Papyrus when he asks?”

You share the indulgent, amused smile he tosses your way. It doesn't really need to be asked; both of you are kind of absurdly wrapped around Papyrus’ boney fingers, in terms of wanting him happy.

“mmhm. and we usually have the couch open anyway. and like you pointed out, she's stayed here short term a bunch even before the whole timeline thing.”

“Does she really wind up burning her house down most timelines?” you ask, tilting your head with your chin still resting on his shoulder.

“yeah. the good ones, anyway. and a lot in general, i guess. she's kinda an impatient cook.”

You puff out a tiny chuckle, squeezing again. “Remind me never to let her into my kitchen.”

“ _ your _ kitchen, hmm?”

“Yes.  _ My _ kitchen.” You pull away from him at last and bump your hip against his, snagging the spatula and the pan from his hands. “Now go drink your tea and make nice, apologize for being mean, all that fun stuff. This'll be plated up and ready in a minute or so.”

“haha. yes, dear.”

He dodges your playful smack. You fail to dodge his equally playful peck on the cheek.

With a small, impish smile, you turn to the process of plating up the eggs. Breakfast won't serve itself, after all.

Of course, no one can  _ really _ blame you if you have to allow yourself one gleefully happy wiggle of joy for the affection, can they? 

You press your face into your hands, muffling a soft squeal.

You love him  _ so damn much _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Send me lots of love and interaction, it keeps me going. 


	43. Choose Your Conversations Wisely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> absolutely fair warning, next chapter I AM going to be dragging all of you down into rarepair hell with me and I have no remorse for that fact.

Breakfast is a quiet affair. 

Even with Papyrus trying to keep the conversation going, you aren’t too surprised when Undyne just moodily pokes at her food and doesn’t say a word. She’s sitting on the couch with Papyrus next to her. You took up a spot cross-legged on the floor, balancing your plate on one knee while you eat, and Sans sat on the floor with his back to the couch arm, his foot pressed against one of your legs. He keeps sending glances Undyne’s way, but at least he’s not looking openly untrusting of her presence anymore.

You finish your meal first and sit back on your hands, humming. “Well. I’m going to Grillby’s.”

“so early?” Sans asks you, tilting his head. “and i thought he was closed today.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t met Fuku yet. I was gonna swing by to say hi, I hear she’s a real spitfire.”

Undyne chokes on a bite of her food and makes a disgusted sound while Papyrus openly groans at you, sighing expansively and shaking his head. “MUST YOU? IT’S BAD ENOUGH WHEN SANS DOES IT!” Sans’ absolutely delighted grin is worth it though. 

You send a quick, innocent look toward Papyrus, and bat your eyelashes at him. “What? I’ve heard she’s got a fiery personality, is all. Plus, if she’s half as hot as Grillby is, I ought to know. Need to keep my options open~”

You burst into giggles and raise a hand to defend yourself as both Sans and Papyrus throw bits of egg your way, Sans with a pleased snort and Papyrus with a fond-annoyed “ _ Nyeh. _ ” Undyne makes another abortive noise of distaste and looks back down at her food, very clearly and pointedly choosing to ignore your presence, though you notice the tension discoloration of her knuckles around her fork (which is starting to bend -- yikes).

“But yeah,” you say, instead, looking back at the brothers. “I’ll be out today. Try not to have too much fun without me, yeah?” You make and keep eye contact with Papyrus for a meaningful moment, tilting your head toward Undyne. He nods toward you -- message received.

“WE WILL MAKE A GAME ATTEMPT, HUMAN FRIEND!” he puffs up his chest, “HAVE A GOOD DAY, AND COME HOME SAFELY!”

It honestly still feels a little weird -- pleasant, but weird -- to hear the word ‘home’ and know it applies to you somehow now. You feel a downright goofy smile form on your face, and feel your cheeks heat up with pleased embarrassment. “‘Course, Paps.”

You shove yourself to your feet, scooping up your plate and padding over to the kitchen to dump it into the sink, before walking back out to grab your bag and duck into the bathroom to change. Normally you’d take a shower at this point, but you think it might be best to get out of the house as soon as possible, and just let Papyrus and Sans set to the work of smoothing things over with Undyne and convincing her to stay. With any kind of luck, you can start getting on non-murderous terms with her later tonight.

Your shoulder is healing over nicely, at least. It’s still oozing, and changing the bandages stings, but it’s taking less time to clean each time you do it, and you can see clean, dark scabbing forming at the edges. The mobility of it is returning as well, though it’s still a bit stiff. You count yourself lucky -- even if the muscles wound up torn, it seems to be knitting together again.

The bite marks themselves are kind of oddly discolored, contrasting sharply in an odd yellow-cyan hue against your skin, a color that should by all means come across as ‘green’ and yet defies that description entirely. But, you’re no doctor. All you know is that it feels like normal-pain when you prod them, and not infection-pain, so you have to assume they’re okay. You rewrap your shoulder and hurry out. 

Once you’re out in the chill, foggy air of an early Snowdin morning, you finally let yourself take a nice deep breath and let the tension flow from your system. There's definitely still a sense of impending doom lying low in your gut, but at least you don't feel like you're in a room that's closing in all around you anymore. You crunch through the snow toward the Christmas tree in the center of town, your hands tucked into the pockets of your borrowed jacket. It's still ridiculously early, after all, you should probably wait a couple of hours before heading into Grillby's, even just to say hi.

You take a moment, standing underneath the massive pine tree and looking upward, feeling a heavy weight of unfamiliar contentment resting once more on your shoulders. It's still so…  _ odd  _ how much Snowdin feels like home to you. It’s only been a little under a month, for chrissakes, it shouldn’t possibly feel this  _ right _ yet, should it?

You nudge a present back under the tree with one of your feet, letting out a breath into the cold air and watching it fog up in front of you. The sweet, almost prickly smell of the pine needles itches pleasantly at your nose--

You sneeze.

Okay, maybe not so pleasantly.

“‘Scuse you!”

You freeze, your eyes watering a bit and a shiver ruining down your spine.

“... thank you.” You say, keeping your eyes toward the tree. The knot in your stomach feels like a vice.

“You sure do have a weird tendency to be outside, alone, with no one concerned about where you are.” The deceptively innocent voice continues, and you finally turn your gaze down to see Flowey curled smugly in among the presents under the tree. “That's a pretty  _ dangerous _ habit, you know? You could wind up  _ hurt. Or worse. _ ”

“Do we really have to do this right now?” you quietly ask, “I had hoped we might be able to pretend to be civil toward each other after what happened in Waterfall.”

“Ha.” Flowey gives a faintly strained sounding giggle, mouth splitting into a demented and dangerous mockery of a smile. Somehow it's not  _ as _ intimidating as Frisk's friend's smile, though. “Nothing happened in Waterfall that would warrant civility between us.”

Ugh. Fine. You're apparently doing this right now.

“Fine,” you sigh, tucking your hands back into the coat pockets and turning more properly toward the damn _weed,_ if only to pretend to be polite. “Is there anything you need in particular?”

“Heehee. Oh, I just thought I'd pass along a lovely message. The King is aware you're here. Your days are much more  _ limited _ than you think.”

“Yeah, okay. Anything else?” there's a note of veiled irritation and tired acceptance in your tone. Flowey pauses, looking up at you with his smile dropping away into a frustrated line.

“Yes. Boring toys are  _ discarded _ .” Flowey announces, almost hissing, and then pulls down into the snow and disappears

You wait for a moment, kind of honestly wondering if you should be legitimately worried in this situation, but there remains no sign that your least favorite tutorial monster is about to reappear and brutally murder you from behind or something. And you're kind of  _ already  _ exhausted of feeling tense and anxious today, so…

You turn your attention back to the tree, deciding quite promptly that you aren't going to let yourself be bothered today. You're honestly, er, not even surprised that the King is aware of your presence? Undyne probably reported to him immediately. Or maybe even Alphys did, a couple weeks ago? Hell, for all you know, maybe there was some kind of magical disturbance in the Barrier that rippled throughout the Underground the moment you passed through it.

...God, when did that sentence become  _ normal_? Why is this your life?!

You let out a heaving sigh, grimacing at the thought, and turn from the Christmas tree to walk toward the edge of town. You don't really have any plans on where your feet will take you other than “somewhere” for the next couple of hours. You just sort of know you don't really want to stay here.

Hell, maybe you'll walk through Waterfall. Maybe, without the looming and immediate threat to your life and the terrifying prospect of your de facto charge falling to his death, you might even be able to enjoy the quiet yet apparent ambiance of the place. Who knows, maybe you'll change your plans entirely and head straight for Hotland; Alphys mentioned it being just past Waterfall and you _ do _ kind of still owe her the chance of being a lab rat. 

Your feet seem to agree, as they carry you across the bridge out of town and onto the muddy earth beyond, into the humid but pleasantly warm air. You let your thoughts drift as freely as the current in the river beside your path as you walk, the minutes ticking by in soothing silence. Your boots stick in the mud a little, but you pay them no mind.

(You confirm to yourself that you have your phone. It's tucked in your back pocket, fully charged. That settled, you let yourself relax.)

Walking like this, in the quiet morning fog, feels familiar in a way that it probably shouldn't. It reminds you of sleepless nights with a nostalgia that borders on fondness for the world above, the world you left behind you. 

You pause near the end of the initial path into Waterfall, where the path and the river split and the river drifts into darker tunnels. There's a boat bobbing in the water, resisting the current, and a hooded figure standing in it.

“Tralala. Your company is expected.”

You hesitate a moment, considering the figure. You can't see any of the features of its face, and its hands are really the only thing you can see clearly. They're scaly, like a reptile, but also… bumpy, almost? No claws, though. 

“Who is expecting me?” you decide to ask instead, turning your eyes up toward it’s ‘face’.

“Tralala. The Hammer of Justice, the hero of the war. Gerson Bog.”

Gerson… oh.

“Tralala. Will you come?”

It's mildly off-putting, the way the figure raises a hand toward the shore to you, but you take a breath and step forward, accepting the help. You settle down on the boat seat and startle a bit-- it's warm! And moving! And  _ breathing! _ \-- but then it moves with much more purpose back upriver, seemingly swimming underneath you. 

You look up at the hooded figure, blinking as the tunnels go dark around you. Tiny glowing crystals are embedded in the walls, casting the world into shades of cyan and azure. “Who are you, by the way?”

“Tralala. I am the River Person. I ferry passengers throughout the Underground.”

Silence again. The water against the sides of the boat is the only sound. You watch the faint glimmering lights in the walls pass by at a swift rate-- much swifter than you think should really be possible. Within only a few moments, the underground river swerves back around a corner into one of the larger caverns again, one that you recognize. It should be only a five- to ten-minute walk to Gerson’s shop.

“Tralala. I will be here when you need to return, young one.”

You accept a hand up and out of the boat again, grateful for it when you need to steady yourself on the shore again. “Is it only in Waterfall that you do your service?” you ask, tugging a spare gold piece from your pocket and handing it to… them? Yes, let's go with that. They hadn't asked for payment but you felt more comfortable knowing you had tipped them for their service.

“Tralala. I let off in three major ports, young one. Snowdin Woods, Waterfall, and Hotland. Trilili. Where there is river, and a passenger, I will be.” They accept the coin and one hand disappears into their cloak for a moment, before they incline their head at you.

“Thanks for your service, then.” You offer an uncertain grin. “I'm glad to know of it.”

You watch them swiftly set off down the river again, unable to shake the odd feeling in your gut.

Did… did you just unlock fast travel? 

… regardless. You turn and start through the main crossroads of Waterfall, trying to orient yourself based on your memories. You think  _ that _ path leads up to Undyne's home, and  _ this one _ goes to Napstablook’s and their cousins’ homes… which means that the path pretty much straight ahead  _ should _ (?) lead to Gerson’s shop.

Thankfully not even you can get lost in that little walking time.

The little bell overhead jangles cheerfully as you duck inside, making you grimace slightly at the noise since it  _ is _ still rather early. You peer around for a few seconds from just within the door. It  _ was _ unlocked, suggesting that either Gerson  _ did _ know you were coming and did expect you, or he forgot to lock it last night. But either way, you're still a bit leery of just  _ going inside. _

“C’min.” The gruff old voice comes from behind the counter. “Thought you'd be here b’fore too long. Y’owe me a chat.” If it weren't for the note of welcoming amusement in Gerson’s voice, his choice of words would have you cringing away. Nothing like unmet ‘requirements’ to get the anxiety going.

You pull the door shut behind you, stepping inside properly and offering a faint sort of smile toward the grizzled old tortoise. “I’m guessing you knew Undyne would wind up in Snowdin.”

“And figured you’d make yerself scarce.” he nods, pouring out a sweet smelling liquid into one of the chipped mugs from a few days ago. He pushes it over toward you, then pours out a second cup as you take your place leaning against the counter. You take a sip of the sweet brew and let out a soft sigh of pleasure at the unexpectedly familiar taste of honey and lemon. “So, thought I’d direct you my way. Sugar?” he nods his head toward your cup, and you shake your head with a smile.

“No, thank you, it’s delicious. But, er, why did you want to see me?”

“T’be blunt, I’m an old man. Sometimes I just rather like to talk.”

You’re startled by your little chuckle, “Ah. Sorry, don’t mean to be rude.”

“Yer about as far from rude as anything can be, far’s I can tell.” he gives a crooked, toothy smile, but there’s a pointed look in his eyes as he takes his own sip. “If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think you had no backbone t’all.”

You consider possible answers to this, but decide to go with the more polite and direct route. “Well, I… do prefer to avoid confrontation.”

“Clearly.” he snickers. “Would you fight, if it were your only option?”

“... _ Fight _ , yes.” you feel an odd weight to the question, and are certain that your answer has to be sufficient. You feel like you’re being  _ tested _ here. “I wouldn’t  _ kill _ anyone, but I’d defend myself. Or someone else, if I had to. If it was necessary.”

He’s quiet for a moment, looking at you over the rim of his teacup. “...what do you define as defending yourself, young one?”

“...erm…?”

“When does it become  _ necessary _ to fight, for you?”

You place your mug on the counter again, biting your lip. “...there’s a deeper question you’re asking here.” 

It’s not a response to him, nor is it really a question on your part, but more of an acknowledgement.

“...s’pose there is.” he heaves a sigh. “Blunt, then. I was one of the  _ very few _ monsters who survived the war, young one. I witnessed humans turn on us for the darkest of reasons.” He turns his gaze down into his own mug, and in that moment, he seems to carry every year of his age on his face. “And over the years… I’ve seen each human that fell down here fight tooth and nail for their freedom.

“An’ without fail… each of ‘em learned they’d need a monster soul, and each of ‘em learned that only boss monsters had souls strong enough t’persist.” He finally looks up at you again, meeting your eyes with his own tired gaze. “There used t’be more of us.”

You meet his gaze evenly. “I won’t take a life.”

There’s a heavy moment of silence between you. You can sense his blatant skepticism, and you don’t blame him, but you’re standing your ground on this.

“It’s not my place…” you start, trying to pick your words for the correct ones you want. You trace your fingers along the uneven edge of the cup rim as you speak, “...to decide that another life is worth less than my own. I don’t  _ want _ to die, down here, but…” you offer a weak chuckle, shaking your head, “When the choice is ‘die down here’ or ‘take a life’, I’d rather the former than the latter. I’ll sooner give my own life than take another.”

“You would give your Soul for our freedom?” there's still a note of skepticism in his voice.

“I would  _ give _ it. I would not willingly let it be  _ taken _ .” You gnaw at your lip. “If that makes sense…? I just… I don't hold any ill will toward you-- you as in monsters in general, I mean-- for wanting freedom. And if my soul is the last thing that you need, then, of course, I don't mind giving it to you. I just draw the line at having my life  _ taken _ .  _ When _ I die it's yours, but I don't damn well  _ want _ to die.”

You tighten your fingers around the mug and lift it up to take another sip.

“...are you ready to give up entirely on th’chance t’go free?”

You shrug. “There'll be times-- probably more times than I'll be proud of-- where I'll want more than anything to leave. But it comes right back around to ‘I can't without breaking my morals’.” You offer one weak grin toward him. “I won't be the person I want to be if I do that.”

You both sip from your mugs in silence for a few minutes, considering the heaviness of the air. Gerson finally breaks the silence between you with a heaving sigh. “I truly hope you mean that, youngling. There’ve been too many senseless deaths in my time.”

You nod. You think you could possibly have a verbal answer, but the weight of his age adds a depth to his words that you highly doubt you could counter with your own.

“In any case.” he puts down his mug, and ducks down under the counter again. “Called ya here for more’n just a chat. Figure you kin probably find value’n some things I ain't bin able to sell. Call it a hunch. You might know better what t’do with ‘em.”

He stands up again, leaning heavily on his cane, and lays out two slightly battered looking items on the counter between you. Your soul immediately pulses  _ familiarity, similarity, protection _ and you  _ know _ that these items belonged to one of the previous children.

A tattered, water-stained, torn up spiral notebook with messy pen scribbles on the front, and a broken pair of cloudy, cracked, and dented glasses. 

You’re reaching for them before you can stop yourself, your breath catching in your throat. You barely manage to pause, just before actually grabbing them.

“...how much?” you ask faintly, looking up and meeting his eyes.

“Take ‘em.” he shakes his head. “‘m done keepin’ reminders a’past mistakes.”

You scoop the glasses gingerly into one hand, picking up the notebook with the other. Your hands are shaking. You feel a pulse of something like confusion, and fear, and uncertainty, before it settles in your core and you feel…

You cradle the items close, and only then realize that you’re crying. The silent streaks of warmth sting against your cheeks.

“Yep.” Gerson nods with a tired sort of understanding. “Thought so.”


	44. Bunny Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Rarepair Hell, population Tini.
> 
> Enjoy your stay, leave a fanart at the door when you leave because we're starving for it here.

You make your way back to Snowdin in contemplative silence, barely sparing the few early morning stragglers in Waterfall a polite smile before you’re settled on the River Person’s boat again and cradling the notebook in your hands. The glasses are tucked into your shirt collar -- they might be broken and bent, but it’s still the easiest way of making sure they don’t go anywhere.

The cover of the notebook is waterlogged and there is clear signs of damage around the edges of the pages, and they stick together when you gingerly pull them apart. The writing inside is, at best, legible chicken scratch. You read only the first page, just enough to confirm which of the children these had belonged to from your hazy memories of that documentary.

George and Gina Martins, twins, age fourteen, had been the last ones to disappear -- only about a decade and a half ago, within your lifetime. This notebook mentions “Gina”, “Gigi”, and “Sis” in various points on the first page alone, enough to leave you with a certainty that this once belonged to George. The glasses were likely his as well.

The notes are meticulous. You’re sure you could probably get a full timeline of their ‘misadventures’ down here if you read through it. Instead, you close the notebook again and turn your burning eyes toward the rapidly passing crystals in the walls.

The chill air of Snowdin soaks into your lungs, chilling you and filling you with a crisp, scrubbed clean feeling from within. You check the inside of your borrowed jacket and find a sizeable pocket in the inner lining, and store the notebook and glasses within, zipping it closed again as you walk across the bridge back into Snowdin. You're barely five feet into town when you hear the purposeful croon and see Sidney practically launching herself your way.

She latches on around your shoulders and presses her satin soft cheek against your own. You catch her almost automatically.

“What happened last night?” she demands, clear worry in her eyes when she pulls back far enough to look you in the eyes. “It felt like a death toll!”

“It did?” you blink toward her, before offering a rueful grin, “Sorry I worried you, then. It was just-- er, just a really bad anxiety spike, and I guess I had a weird reaction with all the magic in the air…”

“Well, next time it happens I’m gonna break somethin’!” She admonishes you, but she pulls you back into a tight hug. “I dropped an entire tray of cookies last night! And Lillia tore her candy bag! Everyone was really worried. Especially when Sans just up and  _ disappeared _ without a  _ word, _ lookin’ like he was about to have a coronary--”

You give a weak, uncertain laugh in an attempt to smooth over the situation, pulling back to wrap your arms around one of her arms in an affectionate grip. “Well, I… I’m fine, now. Thank you for your concern, and I hope little Lilli didn’t drop any of her candy.”

She tugs you close to her side and bumps her hip against yours, sighing, “Honestly, you’re just lucky the King didn’t ask any questions about it, I don’t think anyone had their heads on straight after that.”

“Well, in any case, I’d think what happened last night for  _ all of you _ is far more interesting than what happened last night for me.”

“Hm. Well, we can talk about it at length if you wanna. Where you headed, boo?”

“Grillby’s, as it happens.” You lean your head against her shoulder. “S’closed today, but I wanna meet Grillby’s daughter Fuku. Wanna come with?”

“You know it.”

You both walk in the quiet of the morning fog, offering a few cheerful greetings toward the folks you pass. One or two of them toss questioning “Okay?”s your way, and seem relieved when you nod back.

You really just… love this town. There’s nothing else for it. Just pure, fond, homely love.

You’re the one who raises your hand to rap smartly on the door to Grillby’s fine establishment, when you both step up to it. There’s a moment, before you feel an extremely gentle tug on your soul toward the door, and you think it means ‘come in’. You push it open with a smile already forming on your face.

“Morning, Grillby.” you call out, tugging Sidney along after you into the glorious warmth within the restaurant. “I heard you had a very special visitor.”

Your first sight of Fuku immediately sends a surge of affection through your body, because holy  _ shit, _ she’s adorable. The gentle ember glow of her fire casts a vibrant green corona around her, and she seems to be downright sparkling with delight as she stands to introduce herself to you, giving a short bow and curtsey. 

“That would be me~! It’s nice to meet you, Papa was just telling me about his new employee, and from his description it just about  _ has _ to be you, right?”

She’s swaddled in a fuzzy sweater that has to be magically protected from catching flame, since the flickers and furls off of her head brush against it regularly and it doesn’t catch. Unlike Grillby, she isn’t wearing gloves, so her fingers seem to keep flickering into one another and melding together briefly, instead of remaining solid entities, when she holds her hand out to you. You grasp her hand gently, intrigued by the warm, almost fluid feeling of the magical fire shifting against your skin. She brings her other hand around in a delighted clasp around your grip.

It feels like holding onto a warm teacup. It’s such a pleasantly strange feeling.

“That’d be me.” You nod with a wry grin, “Though now I’m worried about what he might have told you, considering…”

“Oh, only the best parts, I’m sure.” She giggles, the sound flickery and crackling like embers popping in a fireplace. “He mentioned that his patronage doubled after you started working for him!”

“Now  _ that _ has to be an exaggeration.” you cast a stern look over toward Grillby, who gives an amused shrug in response. “The regulars have been the same since I started and I have no doubt that the implication of people coming to Grillby’s just for me is  _ blatantly _ untrue.”

“Hehe.” Fuku giggles again, releasing your hand, and gesturing toward the table where she and Grillby were sitting. Grillby’s normally precise, well pressed suit has been discarded for the visit, it seems, since his button up vest is draped over the back of his chair and the top button of his shirt is undone. It’s a good look for him, though you know it’s not one that will ever see the light of day otherwise. Grillby is a professional, after all.

You take a step toward the table, before letting out a soft “oh!” and shaking your head. “Hang on, silly me. Grillby, you know Sidney, but Fuku, this is--”

Fuku looks past you and her eyes go wide. You turn to glance at Sidney where you left her a few feet within the door, and stop mid sentence.

Sidney’s ears are perked up, a sign of genuine cognitive engagement that you’ve never actually seen on her before. Her familiar dry, languid smile is gone from her face-- her own eyes are wide with something like incomprehension and dubious, uncertain glee, and her mouth is slightly ajar -- she looks… dumbstruck, delightedly confused,  _ awed _ . She’s got one hand tangled in the frayed hem of her sweater and the other has raised to press over the center of her chest, right over her breastbone.

You glance back at Fuku. The flame elemental is burning a bit brighter, her own eyes seemingly glimmering with intense, questioning awe. Her own hand has retreated to press against the center of her chest, mirroring Sidney’s movement.

Grillby, behind her, goes very, very still.

“...this is Sidney.” you finish your sentence weakly, feeling  _ quite suddenly _ that you’re intruding on something very immense, very powerful, and very delicate. 

“Hi.” Sidney breathes, looking a bit lightheaded.

“Hi.” Fuku echoes, burning silvery gold for a moment in the face instead of her glowing viridian. You meet eyes with Grillby and note the look of frantic disbelief on his face. Oh, yeah. There’s definitely something  _ real _ big going on right now.

And then, gently, the delicate, fragile feeling in the air seems to… it doesn’t  _ break,  _ per say, it more just… settles. It simplifies, disappearing inch by inch from what once was into what now shall be. You feel like you’ve just witnessed something incredibly rare.

“Hah.” Sidney gives one breathless, high pitched squeak of a delighted giggle, still looking like she’s about to collapse from whatever just happened to her. She leans heavily on the nearest chair and swallows heavily. “Wow. Uh. Hah. I… yeah. Wow.”

“Yeah.” Fuku nods, sinking down into her own chair heavily and taking several deep breaths, her fire still flickering a bit erratically. “ ‘Wow’ just about covers it.”

“...I’m... missing something.” You announce, feeling a bit tactless but knowing that you’re not going to get any clarification if you don’t ask for it. “What just happened?”

Sidney and Fuku both give out nervously excited little giggles again, catching each other’s eyes and sharing tentative little smiles. Sidney finally sits down, pulling her chair between you and Fuku, her ears back to being folded back and out of the way.

“Um.” she bites her lip around a grin, glancing between you, Fuku, and Grillby. “Well, t’put it in the simplest terms, uh… I  _ think _ that was just… a soulmate bond?”

“Mhm.” Fuku gives one more giddy squeak, squirming a bit in her seat.

“They happen, sometimes, erm-- usually over time, they can be sort of-- forged, I guess is a good word. Most monster couples that work and stick together long enough sort of smooth down the rough edges of any conflicting points of their magics until the bond can sort of form on its own, but, uh… sometimes,  _ very _ rarely, it just kind of… happens?” She gives a helpless shrug. “And uh… that felt kind of like ‘just happening’.”

“N-Not that it’s necessarily--” Fuku seems to come back to herself, looking over at Grillby and already scrambling to reassure him, “going to-- I mean--” she’s glowing gold-silver again, and you realize a bit belatedly that that’s her blush. “--we’re going to be sensible about this, Papa.” she holds up both hands.

You look over at Grillby, and  _ oh, god _ , his flames are burning a darker maroon red, one that does not seem to bode well. He’s staring Fuku down with an intensity that borders on reprimand.

“Y-Yeah! Sensible!” Sidney is quick to agree. “I-I mean, from what I heard you’re still in school over in Hotland, an’ helping out at the Core an’ all, an’... I mean…” she gestures a bit helplessly toward her very furry self. “I’d probably melt if I tried to head over there for longer than just a visit at a time?”

“Yes, of course.” Fuku hums, “And it’d be inconvenient for me to have to travel to and from every day, so, obviously, erm… It’ll have to be…”

“Postponed?” Sidney offers weakly. “Or, semi-long distance?”

“...let’s call it, as loathe as I am to the expression, ‘testing the waters’.” Fuku says instead. “It’s… we’ll still need time to actually get to know one another before… anything.” the last word comes out a bit lamely, and she glances again at Grillby, who seems to be simmering down a bit. He heaves a heavy sigh and puts a hand to his face, seeming to resign himself to the fact that yes, this has just happened with or without his approval.

Sidney seems to sag a little bit at that, but you’re proud to note that the disappointment she’s clearly feeling does not form on her face as she nods. “Still.” she says instead, “Wow, uh. Never expected anything like that to actually ever… y’know, happen to  _ me _ .” she gives one more weak chuckle. “It’s kinda… intimidating, to be honest. Exciting, but intimidating.”

Grillby gives a solemn sort of nod, and you tilt your head, glancing between Sidney and Fuku. You note that their hands are resting only a few centimeters away from each other on the table -- not quite touching, but you have no doubt that they are both hyper aware of how close they are, and have the odd feeling that if they were in private, they would probably be holding onto each other already. It’s  _ very _ odd, the sense of… almost…  _ gravity _ between them, pulling them together. There’s a comfortable sense of fondness already radiating between them, tentative yet sure, despite the fact that they literally only just met.

A painful lump forms in your throat faster than you could ever expect as your thoughts trip sideways into memories of Michele, of the quiet way you had always been aware of her, like being caught in her gravitational pull. Was this what others had seen between you? Was this why you had been invited without question to her funeral? You try to swallow it down and refocus, but it’s not easy. That wound still feels  _ present _ , even after so many years.

You turn your eyes down to the table and just try to breathe.

_ Stop it. _ You tell yourself, ineffectually.

Instead, you try to think about what Sidney had said, about soulmate bonds forming, often over time but sometimes instantly. Was it only monsters that could form them? Could humans find their soulmates in that same way?

...Had… Had Michele been your soulmate?

The painful lump redoubles in your throat and you grasp desperately for a happier thought, almost accidentally following the same vein of thought in a much more positive direction--

Sans.

There’s… there’s a big  _ maybe _ right there, inherent in the thought, so much so that you’re almost reluctant to give words to it. Sans is… a possibility.

You hesitate to say ‘hope’, but... 

God, a deep and very personal part of you  _ really _ hopes.

You've only known him a month. But still-- there is something so deep down within you that you suspect it simply  _ is _ you, something small and delicate and powerful and  _ certain _ , that  **_hopes_ ** .

“Hey, this means I can definitely say no to Cyril without feeling bad, though!” Sidney perks up a bit, and you’re pulled out of your heavy thoughts decisively and without mercy, “I would’ve felt so awkward about it otherwise.”

“You still would've done it.” You plaster that familiar quick smile on your face, furiously telling yourself to just stop thinking about it and be happy for your friends. “Poor guy wouldn't have known what to do with himself.”

“I woulda let him down gentle!” Sidney protests, and you feel a bubble of amusement finally rise up to loosen the knot in your chest. It's not entirely gone, and you know you'll have to devote a bit of time today to actually letting your thoughts play through (and its gonna suck and be generally terrible, but hey, that's life), but for now it's manageable.

“Your definition of gentle doesn’t always match up with some other folks, Sinnabun~” you tease her. “And your way with words isn't always as eloquent and delicate as a situation needs.”

She lets out a fake-affronted squawk at you and you can't help it; you laugh, and the lump in your throat aches in the best way. Sidney reaches over to grab your hand, gently, her smile softening in some measure of fondness toward you as well. 

“Maybe not.” she allows. “But I'm kind to the people I care about. You of all folks can attest to that.”

You squeeze her hand, nodding with a shaky smile, then gently take your hand back. You fold your hands together in your lap and glance between Grillby and Fuku.

“So,” you start, fairly certain that one of you needs to get the conversation moving again. “What’s Hotland like? Besides, uh,  _ hot _ .”

“That’s pretty much it.” Fuku shrugs, “It’s lower down. Breaches the magma pocket underneath the mountain. But on the other side of it the path goes up almost to the surface level again -- that’s where the capital is, New Home. But since Hotland is so far down, with access to the lava, it means that we could use that lava as a power source. That’s how we wound up with the Core, and we pretty much fixed one problem with the solution to the other -- the Core ended up doubling as the best path from Hotland to the capital.”

“...I’m sorry but did you just say that the capital is called ‘New Home’?” You ask, a laugh in your throat. Sidney’s eyes glimmer.

“Yeah.” she says dryly, “King Asgore is terribly uncreative. Pretty sure it was the former queen who handled the real mental heavy lifting.”

You can’t help the unattractive snort, surprised.

“Pretty harsh words for your king.” you note.

“He's a big pushover about most things.” Sidney shrugs. “Like… there are some things I wouldn't wanna cross him on, but overall he's pretty forgiving.”

“Yeah, see,” you shake your head, “It’s the things I don’t wanna cross him on I’m worried about, because I’m pretty sure that list includes me being me.”

“Well, it’s okay.” Sidney shrugs, casting a downright devious grin your way. “There’re times I take issue with you being you, too--”

She’s already laughing uproariously as you shove her away from you with an unamused grunt, sending her sprawling sideways into Fuku, which sets the emerald fire elemental off into her own halfway-uncontrollable giggles. You cross your arms tight across your chest and fake-sulk while the two of them laugh at you.

You cast a long suffering glance at Grillby, as if trying to get him to intervene, and your boss, your  _ beautifully perfect boss _ , just shrugs nonchalantly, taking his cue and also ‘snubbing’ you, sending Sidney and Fuku into deeper gales of laughter, leaning heavily against each other.

He does, however, spare you one very pointed look, and you immediately reconsider the thoughts you’d been nurturing.

Damn. No wingwoman hijinks at work, then.

You do resolve, however, to work some in anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone ships this now. It is a decree from the authoress. All y'all are BunFire shippers now. Make me fanart of my precious fuzzyfire soulmates.


	45. The Friends You Keep, The Enemies You Lose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably gonna be the start of another hiatus, my dudes. These next couple of months are gonna be HELLA busy on my end, and I just want you all to know. :>

You and Sidney depart from Grillby's in the late afternoon, with one of her arms wrapped around yours and Sidney pulling you without hesitation towards the bridge out to the woods. This isn't entirely unusual, she seems fond of the quiet spot near the river -- especially for important conversations. And considering how quickly things had managed to, well…  _ devolve,  _ over the last few days, you have the feeling that she's going to give you the third degree to make sure you're really okay.

The bustle of the town falls behind the both of you into the quiet of the woods, with the only exception being the crunch of the snow underneath your feet. She's quiet as you both trudge along deeper into the woods.

You're just passing Lesser Dog's snow sculptures when she finally slows, wrapping herself tightly around your arm and pressing her cheek to your shoulder.

“They can't have you.” She announces softly, like she's whispering ‘ _ amen _ ’ after a prayer. There's a sense of certainty to it that warms your heart.

“...in the end, I think that's the King’s decision.” You bite your lip and know that she can feel the tremble that goes down your spine, since she tightens her hold again.

“I'll fight him. I'll wreck his shit.”

You offer one stifled giggle, leaning your own head over against hers. “...Sinnabun?”

“Mhm?”

“... how do you… you as in monsters, not, y'know, you personally? But, hah, how do you, uh… perceive the king? Like, i-in a magical sense? What does he feel like to you?”

She hums thoughtfully, turning with you down the path to the river spot and easing down with you until your legs are both dangling of the edge over the rushing water. “He's… it's hard to explain.”

“Try?”

“Yeah, gimme a minute.”

You nod and turn your eyes out over the water again. For a long moment, the only sound between you is your breaths.

“... close your eyes.” Sidney finally says. “This is gonna be sorta roundabout, but you can feel it most clearly out here. Just… take a second, and breathe, and listen to the trees.”

You do as she tells you, breathing slow and soft and focusing on the sound of the wind whispering through the caverns. She presses her paw against your forehead and tilts your head back, opening your airway for the clear air to fill your lungs more easily. 

“The magic of the underground isn't evenly distributed.” She continues softly, the soft melody of her voice helping you slip further into a meditative, contemplative state, which you realize is her intent. “There's places where it gathers and gains a distinct feeling to it, where we can fight off the feeling of the Barrier, but there’s also spots where you can't feel it much at all, and the Barrier feels like the only thing there -- but there's… background magic, sort of. Let it come to you. Try to feel it.”

You breathe, and mentally press yourself outward, feeling the steady thrum of magic from your friend to your right and the vast and wild blankness of Snowdin Woods to your left, tinged with a faint and buzzing pressure that feels… vaguely familiar. It feels like deja vu, more than anything. You almost stumble on trying to pinpoint it, but Sidney’s padded fingers pressing gently against your eyelids make you breathe out and just… do what she’s saying.

“Don’t focus on the Barrier,” she hums, “Look beyond it. Push past it.”

You purse your lips a bit, letting out a disquieted and soft hum -- so that quiet, overlaying sense of… pressure, prison, hopelessness -- that’s the Barrier. And if she’s telling you to push past it, then…

For a featherlight touch, for the barest second, you feel it. Your perception brushes against something fragile and bittersweet, something ancient and deeply hidden. A sense of loss. A quiet feeling, like you’ve forgotten something incredibly important, but you don’t even know what it is you’ve forgotten. Maybe you never experienced it. Maybe it’s not something you have the power to remember.

You follow that touch, chasing the feeling to try and make sense of it, but Sidney presses her fingers against your eyelids again and pulls you back before you can catch it.

“Don’t.” She stops touching you, and you open your eyes. “Don’t chase it. I only wanted you to feel it.”

You look over at her. “What was it? It felt… sad. Like losing something… and then forgetting that you lost it.”

“It’s memory.” she gives you a sad smile. “The memory of the surface. Something we lost, and can’t ever remember. Most of us don’t even realize it. Most of us weren’t born until... after.” 

She folds her hands in her lap, looking down at the interlocking fingers and heaving a heavy sigh before continuing. “King Asgore, and Gerson, and the former Queen, and some of the way older Boss monsters… they all kinda have that feeling about them, of our past. Our story. It’s… why they’re important, at least in part. They’re protectors of something the rest of us have lost.”

You nod, turning your face upward and letting your mind bring you back to quiet nights under the stars, and thinking about what it might be like to have never seen them at all. To know that something is missing, but to have no concept of what it’s supposed to be.

“So, yeah.” Sidney finishes, shrugging her shoulders. “King Asgore is… really powerful. But he’s a protector, at least to us. He feels like safety, and hope, and memory.” She looks up and around at you, tilting her head. “What’d he feel like to you, last night?”

You let out a tremulous little laugh, bringing a hand up to brush unshed tears from your eyes. 

“...can I answer that question with a question?” you ask.

“Didn’t you just?” she offers a weak grin, one that you match. You lean over to bump your shoulder with hers.

“Right after my… distress call.” you choose your words carefully. “Did you… get a sense of Sans’ magic? Like, the first few seconds, after. Before he knew I wasn’t in immediate danger.”

She goes very, very still.

“...King Asgore feels like that, to you?” she has her eyes pointed out over the river again. She’s not looking at you. Her voice is soft, and tremulous.

“...worse.” you admit. “Sans is… incredibly powerful when he lets it show. Asgore was… just... “ you sigh and shake your head. “Imagine Sans’ magic at its most powerful and dangerous, and then even more than that, but  _ all the time _ .”

You let out a soft squeak of alarm when she turns and throws her arms around your shoulders, pulling your face right into her chest and tucking her chin on top of your head.

“The distress call makes sense now.” she announces, without letting you go, tightening her hug around your neck. You sigh and wrap your arms around her waist, letting her card her fingers through your hair and tactilely reaffirm to herself that you’re okay. 

“... You know what's weird?” You muse. “A couple days ago I couldn't do this. It's still kinda hard to, even just with you, but… at the same time, it's not? I couldn't even bear to have  _ Ellie _ too close a couple of days ago, and could barely stand Sans touching me even by the pinkies.”

She brushes a bit of your hair back, pressing her muzzle against the crown of your head. “I’m glad it changed.”

“Me too.” you let your eyes close, letting the soft feeling of her petting your hair back into place soothe the jitters running under your skin. 

“...so what’s the deal with you and Sans?” she asks as she pulls back, resting her paws directly in the snow behind herself. You hum and fold your own mittened hands in your lap again.

“Honestly? I dunno.”

“Seriously?”

You shrug awkwardly, giving a tiny little goofy grin as you think about it. “I mean, like, he kissed me--”

“He  _ what _ ?”

“You know. Mouth on mouth, smoochy noise.”

“ _ Dude _ !” She leans toward you, her eyes glimmering with excitement. “Did you kiss him back?”

“At the time, uh, no, but like, I  _ did _ initiate a kiss last night, so--”

“Wait are we talking like last night with you having a panic attack--”

“No, it was after.” You give her a quick mock glare, “Do you want me to tell you or not, Sinny?”

“Shutting up--” she brings a hand up over her mouth and zips it shut, turning her fingers like a key and then throwing said ‘key’ into the river before you, never to be seen again.

"Okay, good." you nod, turning your head and humming a bit. "But, yeah, he eased me down from the panic attack and we kinda just chilled in his room--"

"You were in his  **_room_ ** ?!" she bursts out, completely disregarding the fact that she just zipped and locked and threw away the key to her mouth.

“Okay, nope, you lost your story-time privileges,“ you laugh and cross your arms, turning your head away from her. She lets out a loud whine and leans heavily over against you.

“Noooo, come on, it's just getting good! I mean, you were in his  _ room _ , you  _ kissed _ him, tell me what happened neeeeeext! Give me details! I'm dying over here.”

She presses all of her weight against your side, pushing you over into the snow on the edge of the river and muffling your laughter underneath one of her ears as she tries to grow exponentially heavier to keep you right where you are. You squirm under her and make semi-irritated ‘get ooooooff” sounds. 

You’ve just barely gotten her to sit up again when the song comes.

It echoes over the treetops, soft around the edges of the notes and yet filled with a powerful sense of purpose. Sidney’s eyes follow your own gaze, as both of you look up to the ‘skies’, and you feel her hand latch around yours and squeeze with a trembling urgency.

“Oh no.” she murmurs.

“What?” you breathe back, scanning the gray afternoon. You feel like you know that voice, the singer -- in fact, you definitely know it. It’s Ellie. Ellie’s voice is echoing over the trees, filling the air with something powerful and fierce, and conversely somehow sad and painful. She’s singing far more loudly than you think you’ve ever heard her, pressing every bit of herself into the song. When you finally see her, you begin to very tentatively understand why.

You follow Sidney to the main path and see your tiny friend up above, singing like her life depends on it as she flies with every ounce of speed she can muster. In her talons is a small cloth bag, which is letting loose something that looks like snow to trickle onto the ground beneath where she’s flying. Sidney pulls you back a few steps to ensure that you don’t touch any of it. You follow on the fringes of the path, trekking back through the woods and keeping Ellie in your sight, as she beelines straight for the Ruins.

“What is this?” you ask Sidney, keeping your voice down, feeling oddly like speaking any louder would be cruel and impolite.

“It’s…” Sidney swallows heavily. “It’s a funerary service. She’s spreading the Dust.”

Spreading the Dust. You understand why Sidney pulled you back, now.

Suddenly, the fierce and purposeful song stings at your heart. 

Ellie slows as she nears the doors to the Ruins, dropping into a hover at their base and then landing there, unfurling the cloth bag and casting about the remains of the Dust at the Ruins’ entrance. She continues singing until the very last moment, her voice steady and deliberate, but you see her lower her head as she finally trails off.

The last note she sang lingers in the air. You can’t quite shake the feeling that the song ended prematurely. 

“It’s done.” Ellie announces softly, folding the cloth between her talons and bowing her head in tired reverence toward the lingering dust at her feet. “May you sleep in starlight, mama.”

You share a glance with Sidney, lifting one eyebrow in a helpless sort of question, not sure what you should do about this or even if you should do anything at all. Sidney squeezes around your arm, looking just as uncertain as you.

“You can come out, you know.” Ellie says. “I'm not about to explode.”

You step out onto the path and ease over toward her, watching her hop herself around until she can look up at you. There's a tiredness to her expression that seems out of place, but no visible signs of grief that you can really see. 

“You okay?” you ask, kneeling down in front of her and pressing your knees into the slush in front of the door.

“I'll manage.” She announces quietly, fluttering up to take her usual spot on your shoulder. “This was kind of a long time coming. I've… already had my time to grieve, unfortunately. What about you?”

You offer a rueful smile and lean your head over to press it against hers. “I'm managing.” You are extremely gratified of your terrible little joking echo when she lets out a hiccupy, chirpy little giggle and presses her head more firmly against your cheek. It says what it has to. “We’ve… got a guest at the house, now.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s Undyne.”

“...yep.” she chirps out a semi-amused sigh as you stand up again, “That’s about what I expected from that statement. How are you handling it?”

“I’m giving her the couch. Her house burned down.”

Sidney makes a guttural noise of confusion as you walk back over to her with Ellie on your shoulder, “Wait, hang on, you didn’t mention this.”

“It just happened this morning, Sinnabun. I hadn’t gotten to that part of storytime yet.” You glance skyward as the wind starts to pick up, and grimace, “And I think storytime might have to wait, it’s getting pretty late. I should get back and start dinner.”

“...yeah.” Sidney sighs, “Okay. Promise you'll text me tonight?”

“First chance I get, bunnaboo.” You bump her hip with your own and start walking back toward town, and home. “I’ll see if Sans has Fuku’s number if you want. He seems to know everyone for some reason.”

“Fuku? As in Grillby’s daughter Fuku?” Ellie asks, her voice far more calm than you really expected. You know she said she had already gone through her grieving process, but a part of you had still kind of thought she'd be… quieter, or something, at least for a while. You store the unease in your gut in the back of your mind to consider later -- you have a conversation to be a part of.

“Yeah.” You nod instead. “Sidney’s got a  _ soulma~a~a~ate _ .” you pitch your voice into the teasing singsong of grade schoolers making fun of each other for having a crush. Sidney shoves at your uninjured shoulder with a huff, but you’re pleased to note that her fur is standing on end and she looks appropriately needled.

“...yeah, I do.” she murmurs, and you can hear the reluctantly pleased smile in her voice.

“So instead of getting you and Cyril under the mistletoe, we’re gonna have to get you and Fuku under, because you know that’s the only way Grillby’s gonna let you smooch her.”

You try not to analyze Ellie’s snickering response too hard, but there’s still a part of you that just… really does not trust how calm she is, or… how much she seems to be--  _ accepting _ what happened, maybe? Maybe you’re just biased though, you only really have your own experience with death to compare it to, and that experience alone had very nearly destroyed you. You can’t even fathom what might have happened if it had been your  _ mother _ who died.

Or Dawn. Stars above, you do  _ not _ want to think about what might have happened then.

The three of you walk in relative silence (well, you and Sidney walk, Ellie just sort of sits in her usual spot and preens some of her ruffled feathers back into place). By the time that the bridge to town comes back into view, the magically forged light over the woods has started to shift into what you like to mentally call “late evening gray”. You and Sidney part ways with one more quick squeeze of a hug, and you continue toward the familiar house on the opposite side of town, your hands in the pockets of your still-borrowed sweatshirt.

“I’m… here if you want to talk.” you mumble, still unsure if you’re doing the right thing or not.

“Isn’t that my line?” Ellie asks back, with a note of exhaustion in her voice. “But… thanks.”

You nod, trying to convince yourself that it’s enough, and crunch through the snow up to the stoop, and then to the door.

“I’m home--” you call out, as you open the door.

“SANS I SWEAR IF YOU DON’T LET ME GO--” Undyne’s loud and irritated voice cuts you off. You come into view of Undyne struggling in a faint cocoon of cyan magic, right in the kitchen doorway.

You send a _look_ at Sans, who immediately puts on his most innocent _i did nothing_ _wrong_ expression in return.

“My kitchen?” you ask, a faint warning to your voice.

“your kitchen.” Sans nods.

“Let her go.”

You get twin looks of ‘what the fuck’ from both of them, but Sans obliges. Ellie flits off of your shoulder to disappear in the rafters without a word as you step forward directly in front of Undyne. She’s several inches taller than you, but your approach still sends her back half a step.

“Look,” you say, very sweetly up toward her, “you can hate me, you can advocate for my death, whatever, it’s fine, but with your current track record, while you stay in this house, you  _ stay out of my sanctuary.  _ You do not get  _ near _ my kitchen,  _ especially _ not while I’m not around, and  _ double especially _ not with the intent of cooking. Got that?” You raise a hand to jab directly in the center of her chest, still smiling brightly up at her with a faint irritated twist to your grin.

Undyne looks rather dumbfounded by your cheerful… threat? Were you just being threatening? Did you actually just do that?

You slip around her before she can muster up an answer, making your way over to the stove and already pulling things out to start on dinner. If you’re finally figuring out how to ‘have a backbone’ as Gerson called it, you’re not going to let yourself question it.

“Now,” you call over your shoulder, your voice returning to normal. “What do you want for dinner?”


	46. In The Dark Of The Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whispers I do what I want don't judge me

The evening is still quiet and mildly uncomfortable, though it’s a different kind of quiet than the tense silence that had marred that morning’s breakfast. Undyne seems less openly hostile, somehow, but she’s definitely still warily studying you. You do your best to ignore it, allowing Papyrus to wheedle you into helping him with the last bits of learning to solve the Rubik’s cube. He keeps forgetting the final series of movements to fix the last slots. You patiently reshuffle it as many times as he asks, helping him practice.

Ellie stays up in the rafters for most of the night. She only comes down once, to snag your faded and much-loved sweatshirt off the couch to remake her nest up there. You periodically hear her trilling soft notes that sound suspiciously like a continuation of that song from before. You try not to worry.

By the time the clocks show ten pm, and Papyrus is yawning into his boney hands, you all decide to call it a night. You get the couch set-up again for Undyne to sleep there before following the boys upstairs, yawning into your own shoulder and pausing with Sans to tell Papyrus goodnight. You feel Undyne’s intent stare following you from downstairs, and hear a sleepy, twittery, incredulous chuckle from Ellie, when you follow Sans into his room.

Sans gets changed quietly and quickly while you have your face turned toward a wall to respect his privacy -- then you swap positions and he keeps respectfully quiet while you strip and change, pulling on the tattered remains of the shirt that Undyne had torn into bandaging a few days before. When you clear your throat again and he turns around to look, you can easily see the spark of intrigue-filled confusion that lights his face at your choice of clothing.

“It’s just-- this shirt’s not good for much anymore. Only really wearable as pajamas now.” you shrug, your cheeks pink. You try not to think too hard about the fact that the fuzzy sweater-like material of the shirt cuts off at the base of your ribs, leaving your stomach exposed. From the quiet way that Sans’ eyes keep drifting downward, and the faint blue glow of his cheeks, he definitely, ah…

...notices the exposed skin?

...wow, this… seems so much more intimate now, somehow. You swallow heavily, and try to bolster your courage as you walk over to join him, sitting next to him on the edge of his bed. You shift your hand over to tangle your fingers with his.

“good?” he asks, and you feel a little better realizing he sounds just as uncertain and flustered as you feel.

“Yeah.” you swallow again. “U-Um, I…”

Your cheeks are burning. Sans squeezes at your hand and breaks eye contact, swallowing himself.

“i-- i can sleep on the floor, if you’d prefer.” he quickly mumbles, his entire face glowing a faint cyan. Some of the tension seeps out of your system.

“...” with an awkward little giggle, you put your face in your free hand and shake your head. You lean over until your shoulder is pressed against his. “Sans?” you finally ask.

“h-huh?”

“Are we-- I mean... “ you lower your hand, looking over at him. There’s a sense of helpless amusement in your system, because this is ridiculous. You’ve already admitted to yourself that you pretty much just… blatantly love him, why are you so embarrassed right now? “Did I forget to mention _yes_ officially?”

The look on his face is worth the embarrassment. He looks comically caught between unbridled hope and pure terror. You watch him shakily bring a hand up to cup at your cheek, and he pulls you into a soft, fleeting kiss.

“yes.” he says against your lips, with a note of displeasure, but you can feel the way his mouth keeps trying to curve up into a relieved grin that’s ruining the effect. “yes you did. that kind of _helps_ , you know.”

“Can I add…” you murmur back, “That I trust you not to do anything I wouldn’t _want_ you to, bonehead?”

“oh, stars, don’t say that.” he pulls back, pressing his forehead against yours with a rueful grin. “that just makes it… more difficult… to behave.”

“ _You_ were gonna say _harder_ , but thought better of it.” you immediately snicker.

“ _yeah_ , shut up.”

You pull him to lay down beside you and curl up close to him, feeling the tension finally seep from your system and kissing his nasal ridge. “...did I just manage to make the first _boner_ pun, Mr. Skeleton?”

“shush.” he pulls you into one more very pleasantly decisive kiss, one which leaves you seeing stars and shivering with giddy happiness. “keep tempting me, see what happens.”

You sigh happily and snuggle closer, “Mm. Maybe some other night.” there’s a quiet, almost imperceptible relaxation between the two of you at your words, and you realize that you weren’t the only one who was a little bit leery about actually doing much other than this tonight. Not to say that both of you don’t _want_ to (with the way he’s tracing his hands almost mesmerized up and down the skin over your ribs, you can say fairly easily that he’s _definitely interested_ ), it’s more just… more comfortable to hold off, at least for tonight.

“thank you for the direct answer.” he chuckles softly into the darkness between you as you carefully squirm yourself into being the little spoon again. He obligingly wraps his arms around your waist, his fingers still trailing along the skin of your stomach and delightfully warm. He presses his face into your hair.

“Under different circumstances, I’d be all for it,” you grab hold of one of his hands and pull it up to press kisses along his bony knuckles, “but today’s been exhausting.”

“sleep well, then.” he murmurs into your hair, pressing one more kiss to the top of your head.

“You too.”

* * *

You wake up with a surge of pure, instinctual terror that catapults you out of your dreams into a room that’s glowing a sickly cyan color, like the neon in a dying alarm clock, and a tidal wave of magic in the air. Sans is on the opposite side of the bed from you, his breathing labored, his eyes still closed but sparking off with volatile magic with every shallow inhale.

It only takes you a second to realize he’s having a nightmare, and a pretty terrible one at that. You can hear the rest of the house stirring from the absurd amount of magic in the air, and can hear the thump from next door that sounds like Papyrus falling out of bed.

You get to Sans first, though, by virtue of being right there.

He jolts under your hand when you scoot over and trail your fingertips against his cheek, trembling down to your bones but determined to be strong about this. One of the errant cyan sparks slashes across your finger -- it burns, and a thin, jagged cut appears where it touched. You bite your lip to hold down on your squeak of pain.

“Sans.” you murmur instead, continuing to gently stroke his cheekbone, though you swap hands to avoid getting blood on his face. “Sans, wake up, you’re having a nightmare.”

He gasps under your hand and his eyes snap open, wild and unseeing. One of them is bright and flaming with that same eerie, volatile cyan color. The other is blacker than night. You hear Papyrus push the door open behind you, but your focus is on the trembling skeleton in front of you.

“SANS--” Papyrus is winded. You’re willing to bet he’s a regular savior of Sans’ nightmares.

Sans grabs hold of your face, his eyes violently unfocused but his hand desperate, and you hold dutifully still while he traces the shape of your features with his thumb -- delicately, like you’re fragile, even though he’s frantic. Even if he can’t see -- which it seems like he can’t, panic still has him firmly in its grip -- he can still get confirmation of who you are.

“You’re okay, bonehead.” you say, still shaking like a leaf. “Breathe. I’m here.”

“you’re... here.” he repeats, and the vibrant and wild magic in the room dies away by inches. His eye slowly flickers back out, until both of them are dark and hollow. He pulls his hand away and falls back to the bed again, letting out a faint, weak keen of a laugh and pressing his hands to his face.

Papyrus glances uncertainly between you, before drawing himself up and nodding decisively. “YOU SEEM TO--” he pauses, before clearing his throat in embarrassment. “ER… pardon. You seem to have this well in hand, human friend.”

“I guess.” you hum, your eyes not leaving your frazzled boyfriend. “You can go back to sleep, Paps. I got this.”

“Indeed. I shall leave him to you.” you hear the door close again, and the muffled sounds of Papyrus walking back to his room.

The silence is deafening, at least for a few moments. You bite your lip.

“Bad one.” you finally say, sucking your bleeding finger into your mouth for a moment. It’s not a question. You scoot over to him and gently pull his hands away from his face.

“bad one.” he confirms wearily. He still looks a bit unfocused, the tiny lights in his eyes wavering around the edges. You brush your fingers in soothing circles on his cheeks again until he lets out a staggered breath and finally says it outright: “full reset. i... didn’t know what timeline i was in.”

_you were gone._

He doesn’t need to say it out loud for you to hear the words, the thought he can’t bear to give a voice.

Your heart thumps painfully in your chest. You glance upward, at where his paper is still taped, though the edges are a bit charred by the errant magic. Clearly, that’s not enough if he can’t look at it fast enough. And if his vision fails him in the midst of a panic attack, like it did tonight…

Your fingers drift almost automatically to the simple gold band on your left ring finger, remembering Dawn pushing it into your palm and saying it was sure to be a good reminder of her when she wasn't around, something for you to fiddle with when your hands needed to move. Something to touch. Something that would remind you.

You sit up, bringing your hand to the tattered sleeve of your shirt and ripping at a loose tatter, the shredding noise loud in the night. Sans flinches, but his eyes follow your movements as you take the long strip and begin methodically tying it into random knots.

Once the fuzzy strip is bumpy and thoroughly textured to the touch, you reach over and grab at one of his hands, tying it off around his wrist. You hold your fingers against it for a moment, pressing against the knots and willing it to be enough, for his sake. Your hands are still trembling. There's an odd intensity thrumming through your Soul as you press your fingers against the knotted bracelet.

“There.” you murmur, smiling weakly down at him in the darkness. “Now whenever you wake up, you can feel this and know what timeline you’re in. No matter the nightmares.”

_And you can know that I’m not going anywhere._

He’s staring up at you, his eyelights still wavery, as you lay back down again. You inch yourself over until he can wrap his arms around you, and you feel him press his chin into the dip of your shoulder. You do your best to breathe, and slow your heartbeat down from its uneasy flutter, because you know he needs this. He needs reassurance, right now, and against all odds, you’re it.

You keep breathing, focusing on the feel of his arm draped over your ribs, hoping that the steady rise and fall manages to do something for him. He barely moves, but you can still say with a fair amount of certainty when he finally slips back to sleep. It’s like a faint buzz finally leaves the air, as the last lingering wisps of his magic settle down into dormancy again.

You slowly turn your head upward, looking through the darkness at the paper above your heads. You look forward to the day he doesn’t need it anymore.

* * *

Secluded up in the rafters of the house, Ellie’s eyes remain open while the other occupants finally settle and go back to sleep. She runs her beak carefully through the feathers at her breast, her movements as silent as the snow outside. After several moments of silence and enough certainty that she’s the only one left awake, she carefully extracts herself from the soft faded fabric cocoon she’s made into her nest.

She hops down into a low flutter, before landing on the floor beside the door. A quick glance up and over at Undyne shows that she hasn’t moved.

She flutters up to the knob, resting her weight on it. Another glance. Still no movement.

A careful push downward with her weight, her wings raising up to steady her, nets the handle turning enough for the gentle wind outside to swing the door open a few inches. She slips through the small opening and catches hold of the handle on the other side, back-winging until the door swings shut again with a soft click.

She’s up into the glimmering night without a further word, winging her way back through the woods toward the Ruins. Her job as the Royal Messenger has two reports for each occasion, after all, and it’s vital that the King and Queen remain in contact despite their… differences of opinion. She had completed her responsibility to report to the King, and had attended to the… necessary… complications in the capitol (her soul aches, but she shakes it away). Now, she owes the Queen a report, and a warning.

She carefully locates the stone in the symbols etched into the door to the Ruins that has always acted as her personal key, fluttering up to it and rapping smartly against it with her beak; it glows a faint and glimmering purple in the blue light of Snowdin’s night, and the door swings open a few inches, before swinging shut behind her again.

She wings her way down the long hallways, then up the stairs into the quiet flame-lit glow of the Queen’s entry room. She can hear the fire crackling in the sitting room, and a quick flutter brings her into sight of the Queen, resting in her reading chair.

Ellie gives a soft airborne bob in lieu of a bow, as Queen Toriel inclines her head toward her. “My Queen.” she acknowledges.

Toriel inclines her head again, a tired agelessness to her eyes. “Your report, young one?”

“...I’m sure you felt it.” Ellie flutters down onto the side table, resting her wings.

“Three deaths in quick succession.” Toriel nods. “This makes four in total, correct?”

“Yes.” Ellie fluffs her feathers. “She… didn’t take it well initially, but seems to be recovering.”

“And she’s still here…” Toriel folds her hands in her lap, letting out a tired sigh. “This… may yet stick.” there’s a note of uneasy hope in her voice. “I greatly hope that it isn't some factor of our home that causes kind people to…” she trails off, then shakes her head, focusing again. “Regardless. What of Asgore?”

“The King is, of course, aware of her presence. But as of now, he is… disinclined to seek her out himself. He is willing to act as if he knows nothing about her. But there may be… ahem… a _provocation_ , of sorts.” The word comes out bitter, with a sour taste.

Toriel sighs, “And by provocation, you mean…”

“She _might_ be allowed to meet with him. But I don’t know if I trust that. I’m not the only one who reports to him. He’s already received at the very least a report from Undyne, my queen, and one from Alphys. I… I worry, my queen, that he may assign Alphys to… experiment, in ways that ...the human... won’t approve of. And even if she doesn't, Mettaton is likely to make an appearance, and his personality is… abrasive? At best. It-- may count as the provocation the King warns about.”

“Do you fear that she might succumb to this _provocation_?”

“...If I was to give an unbiased answer, based only on outside observation… I don’t know, my queen.” Ellie admits. “It seemed unlikely that she would turn on Undyne, and yet she started chasing after her at one point, running _toward_ the danger…”

The faint, tired smile that forms on Toriel’s face eases some of the tension out of the small bird’s frame. “You’re not an unbiased observer, Ellie. Your observations count for quite a bit, in my regard. Give the answer you would if this were not an official meeting.”

“She won’t.” Ellie’s answer is prompt, but then Toriel’s words catch up with her. This is _still_ an official meeting, despite this leniency. She fluffs her feathers and pulls herself up straighter. “She may… lose her temper, at least briefly. But she’s got a good soul, and I can’t see her allowing it to color her actual behavioral response.”

“For all of our sakes, I do hope you're right...”   Queen Toriel sighs, seeming to sag in her seat. “Is that all?”

“... yes and no.” Ellie bows her head. “I completed my mother's Messenger’s Rites. Her Dust has joined that of my grandmother and great-grandmother, crossing the distance between you and the King.” there's a quiet tremor in her voice, but she swallows it down.

Toriel’s large and fuzzy hands sweep down to scoop up the tiny bird, trailing one padded finger along her crest and sending a soft shiver down her spine. “She was a good and loyal messenger. You take well after her, young one. There is no shame in grieving.”

The shuddery sniffle is roughly swallowed down. Ellie leans into the gentle hands, sighing. “I take after dear old Da far more than I like.” she admits. “But thank you, my queen. I’m sure mama was just as proud to serve you as I am.” she fluffs herself up once more, shaking herself out and hopping down again. “I’d best get back. I didn’t tell anyone I was leaving.”

“Take care of her.” Toriel murmurs. “Keep her kind.”

Ellie bows once, before launching into the air again, already flitting back toward Snowdin.

She has certain orders, as a messenger. Sometimes the King and Queen disagree. Sometimes she has to choose whose orders to follow.

This choice is a no-brainer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wanted to post this chapter before going on hiatus because it ends in a cliffhanger and I'm terrible like that. So I'm rectifying that now. still working on... a shit tonne of things, honestly? But hey, yell at me here. or on tumbr. or both! Do both. Both is good.


	47. Monthly Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WHOOOOOOOO'S READY FOR THE PERIOD CHAPTER
> 
> It's me. It's totally me.

Sans’ legs are tangled up with yours when your phone blips out its cheerful seven AM alarm. He lets out a soft groan into your hair as you blink yourself awake, tightening his arms around your waist. You don’t remember falling asleep again, after his nightmare, but clearly you must have. You feel sluggish and still sleepy, and your muscles are sore. You’re also… faintly nauseous?

You re-count your days, trying to recall what day it is, and come up with Sunday, November 2nd.

You pause, and recount your days again. Still the second of November.

There’s a measure of dread in your gut. You’re immediately more awake. You’re… afraid to move.

The tell-tale twinge of pain comes anyway.

_ Fuck _ .

If you move, you’re certain the delicate balance that is somehow preventing Menstrual Armageddon will be shattered. The cramps will hit in full, and there will most likely wind up being blood  _ everywhere _ . You’re going to be out of commission for most of today as is. If you  _ don’t _ move, there’s no possible way to get downstairs to the bathroom, to your meager supplies.  _ How _ in the hell had you forgotten? Your damn period came every month, it wasn’t like it snuck up on you!

“Sans.” you murmur, forcing yourself to stay calm. “Can you teleport me to the bathroom?”

“mmph…?” he mumbles into your hair, attempting to squeeze you closer. “nh... no, don’t go.”

“I’m off today,” you keep your tone studiously calm and conversational. “We can come back to bed. But I  _ really _ need to get to the bathroom, like, immediately.”

He lets out a muffled whine, but pulls back and blinks sleepily at you. His expression clears -- maybe the strained look on your face has broken through to him. “what’s…?”

The thin tendril of pure luck that was keeping the flow back snaps. You feel it starting between your legs, and immediately let out a soft curse.

You swing yourself up seconds before the cramps hit in full, and gasp as the air is shoved out of your lungs by a familiar, annoying agony.

“ _ Fuck. _ ” you hiss, wrapping your arms around your waist. “Too late. Crap, shit, and corruption.”

“oh god.” his voice is strained, and you look up to see his eyelights are gone, and he’s staring at the growing stain of red on your pants. “are you-- bleeding?”

“Bathroom.” you grit out, grabbing hold of his hand. “ _ Now _ .”

Thankfully, he listens. You blink and the surge comes, and suddenly he’s holding you upright in the bathroom. You wheeze out another curse as the sudden shift of position and relative gravity aggravates your already nauseous stomach.

“what’s going on?” he sounds  _ terrified _ . “why are you bleeding? are you hurt? you’re not  _ dying _ , are you?”

“I’m not dying. Just a monthly  _ irritation _ to deal with.” you grit out, gesturing vaguely at the cabinets even as you angle yourself to sit down on the toilet. “Box of tampons. On the right. Then a-- a new outfit? From my backpack? Then privacy for like… twenty minutes? I need a shower.” You wheeze in another breath as another cramp crashes like a wave, cresting and overwhelming you for a few seconds. Your hand is pressed over your gut when it finally lets up.

Sans follows orders with a frightening efficiency for someone who looks as scared as he does. Within seconds, you have a tampon in your hand, he’s disappeared and reappeared with a new shirt (one of the absurdly fuzzy and soft and warm ones, praise be), a pair of underwear, and a new pair of your loose and comfy sweats (bless his  _ soul _ , you love him so much) and he’s pressing a kiss to your forehead. No bra, but you’ll probably be laying in bed all day anyway, and fuck if your boobs aren’t already swollen and sore as hell.

“i’ll be right outside.” there’s still a note of worried uncertainty in his voice, but you offer him a pained smile anyway. “promise you’re gonna be okay?”

“Thank you, Sans.” You murmur, squeezing his hand. “I promise you, I’m fine. Not dying, not hurt -- well, cramps hurt, but I’m not  _ injured  _ hurt, just achy.”

He nods, looking doubtful, but disappears from the bathroom again. You hear Undyne let out a startled yelp from the couch and have to bite down an irrational giggle. You can’t help but imagine him sitting right outside the door like a puppy.

You shake your head. Twenty minutes -- enough to shower, to get clean. Hopefully the hot water will help with some of the pains.

You make fairly quick work under the hot water, washing from head to toes and spending a bit of extra “personal time” with the showerhead to make sure you’re clean, but then you’re out and getting yourself set up with a tampon before the cramps can catch up with you again. You get dressed and are towelling off your hair when Sans knocks on the door again.

“alright?”

“Alright.” you call back, and he pulls the door open, still looking concerned.  You offer a soft smile his way as you stand up and leave the bathroom, feeling much more in control without blood leaking down between your legs. Your muscles are all still sore, and you can still feel cramps threatening to rise up in rebellion of your movement, but this is fine. You’ve lived with this for years, it’s not even that much of a hassle anymore.

“So,” you wrap an arm around his, squeezing it in a brief hug and offering an impish smile. His face goes a delightful shade of blue, and you realize a little bit belatedly and with a more profound bit of vindictive glee,  _ oh, yeah _ , you’re not wearing a bra. “Breakfast, or no?”

“...” you can see the moment of hesitation in his eyes. The way he looks you over with clear concern on his face. And you can also see the dark circles underneath his sockets. The nightmare took it’s toll on him.

“You can say no.” you lean forward to press your nose briefly against his nasal ridge. “Go back to bed if you want, bonehead. I’ll be up after I make tea.” You pull back and offer him one more of your best ‘I’m okay’ smiles. “I’ll explain then.”

“...okay. promise?”

“Promise. Go back to bed, sleepybones.”

You pull him down to press a kiss to his forehead, before walking toward the kitchen. You know you have to keep moving or the cramps will absolutely ruin you. You call over your shoulder as you dig through the cabinets for the cannister of golden flower tea leaves. It’s getting a bit low, but it’s enough yet for a few more cups. “Ellie, Undyne, would you like anything quick to make for breakfast? Eggs, toast? Cereal?”

You feel more than you hear Sans’ return upstairs -- a quick burst of magic and you know he’s following your very gentle orders. 

“Eggs.” Ellie’s drowsy voice calls, “Please.”

You nod to yourself and pull out a small bottle with a label that marks it as “sweetsyrup” for your tea, before turning to start pulling the supplies together for making a quick batch of scrambled eggs.

“H… Hey.”

The voice makes you pause, looking over to the doorway to the kitchen. Undyne is standing there, leaning with one arm on the doorjamb and shifting awkwardly on her feet. She still looks mildly uncomfortable, but you do your best to make your welcoming smile toward her as natural as possible.

“Yes?” you ask.

“Answer me somethin’.” she starts, tightening her hold on the doorjamb. “Why’re you... “ she grits her teeth. “Why are you  _ really _ being so nice to me? And don’t just say it’s ‘cuz I’m Paps’ friend.”

You turn toward the stove, cracking the first egg expertly into the pan and grabbing the whisk. “Do I really need a reason other than that?” You hum softly under your breath, gesturing toward the kettle on the counter. “Do me a favor, fill that about two thirds of the way with water?”

The silence is palpable.

“...I thought you said you didn’t want me in your kitchen, ever?”

“Without me there, yeah.” you’re scrambling the eggs now, cracking another egg one-handed into the pan. “All I’ve heard about your cooking skills, no offense, does not inspire confidence.”

“I’m a great cook!”

“Then do me a favor, and help me.” you keep your tone light hearted, biting down on a snicker with the assistance of another twinge of pain from your gut. Eugh. “I’d rather get back to bed and in a comfy position as soon as possible before a pain-med-less period leaves me curled up in a ball of agony and crying.”

“...what’s a period?”

You pause, and sigh, and shake your head. “I’m… so jealous… that you can honestly say that.” You glance over your shoulder at her, over twelve years of monthly menstrual agony in your eyes, and she takes a step back in surprise. “A period is a monthly occurrence for some humans, where their reproductive system goes into full rebellion for the fact that it is not actively in the process of making another, smaller human. It begins tearing up the inner lining of itself since that inner lining is for the creation of a smaller human, and expels it from the body in the form of about… four or five days of bleeding. It also comes with the glorious side effects of,” you turn and begin counting on your fingers, “Muscle cramps, bloating, nausea, itching, swelling, weird food cravings, and generally feeling like scum, while simultaneously and paradoxically refusing to let anyone else make you feel like scum. Sometimes it also makes you irrationally horny, but also feeling gross for being horny, because  _ ew, bleeding from there. _ ”

She gives you a dubious look as she walks in to start filling the kettle. “All of that?”

“Every month.” you nod, scraping the finished eggs onto a plate and splitting off a smaller portion onto a separate plate for Ellie.

“Well…” She carries the kettle over to you by the stove, and you swallow down on the instinctive shiver as she looms close over you. She’s not quite as tall as Papyrus is, but she’s close, and while she isn’t exactly  _ bulky _ , you can still see very clear definition of her muscles. “Guess I’ve gotta have some respect for that. No wonder you were ballsy enough to face me down.”

“Was that a compliment?” you offer a wry, strained grin her way.

“It was an acknowledgment that happened to have positive connotations.” She gives a faint shark grin back.

“Sure.” you offer a soft chuckle, setting the kettle on the heat and leaning back against the counter. “...look, Undyne.” you start, your tone shifting into a more serious one. “We… don’t have to be friends, if you don’t want, but… I honestly would like to. Or at least be on friendly terms? You… seem really nice. And it would be less awkward with both of us staying here.”

She crosses her arms and looks away from you. You duck your head in a tired nod of understanding.

“...I guess.” she finally mutters, and you look up sharply, shocked. “I guess, I can… lay off, on the whole, you’ve gotta die thing. For Paps’ sake. It’s not often he stands up for himself on something, especially not to me, and… if he was willing to lie to my face for your sake, then maybe you’re worth… giving a shot.”

You chuckle, handing her the larger plate of eggs with an amused smile. “Funny thing. He wasn’t lying. I guarantee you, he was fully capable of stopping me if he wanted. He almost did by accident.” She takes the plate with a surprised blink of her one good eye. 

“On accident?”

“Yeah. Boy  _ let loose _ .” you lower your voice like you’re sharing a secret. “I surprised him. Massive magical surge, and poof! Humongous bone, taller than this  _ house _ and thicker around than the Christmas tree outside, heading towards me faster than I can dodge.”

“Really?” she’s got a devious grin on her face now. “Knew he had it in him. So how’d you get past it?”

“SHE DID NOT! SHE WENT THROUGH IT!” Papyrus’ voice startles you both from the doorway to the kitchen. You smile at him, feeling your cheeks heat up.

“Mornin’, Paps. Breakfast?”

“THAT SOUNDS LOVELY! BUT, HUMAN FRIEND, ARE YOU NOT ALSO GOING TO EAT?”

Your stomach flips over at just the thought, but you keep your smile on your face even as you shake your head. “Not yet, I don’t think. I’ll just have my tea for now. You two split the rest of the eggs, I’m making my cup and heading back to bed, if that’s okay...”

“Hey, no, wait. What do you mean, she went through it, Paps?” Undyne’s voice cuts through yours, even though it’s not that difficult -- your voice had been getting fainter by the word as your cramps started to amp up again. It was taking most of your effort not to let it show on your face.

“IT WAS QUITE IMPRESSIVE!” Papyrus announces, taking his spot next to Undyne at the counter and beginning to quietly (for him) babble about your impulsive rush at the incoming attack, despite the fact that it ought to have done near irreparable damage. You turn your attention instead to the kettle, snagging it just as it starts to steam and moving it off of the heat.

You turn to grab the canister of golden tea leaves, but have to take a moment to breathe when the next cramp washes over you.  _ Ride it out, oh god, ride it out _ . You grip the counter for stability and close your eyes. Behind you, you can hear Papyrus faltering on his speech.

“Hey… Human, are you alright?”

“Fine.” you grit out. “Just-- gonna be out of commission for a couple days… unless I find a way to-- ngh. To take care of the cramping.”

“WHAT ABOUT HEALING MAGI--” Papyrus starts, but you hear Undyne clear her throat loudly behind you and can only guess she’s shaking her head at him. Even the mentioning of healing magic has sent a tremor of terror through your system, starting at your still injured shoulder. 

“...I’ll…  _ manage _ .” you let out a trembling breath and pour your mug of tea, stirring in the tea leaves and watching the water turn a pleasant shade of amber gold. You lift it up to take a sip and already feel a bit of the tension slipping out of your system. “For now, I think I just want to go back to bed.”

“...ALRIGHTY THEN!” Papyrus’ voice is cheery behind you. “WE WILL SEE YOU LATER, HUMAN FRIEND.”

“Kay. Later.” you raise one hand behind you as you shuffle back out of the kitchen, heading slowly back up the stairs and toward Sans’ room. You’re not sure if you’ll have to knock or not…

Another cramp makes itself known. You freeze right in front of his door, and force yourself to breathe, even as your forehead thunks forward against the wood.

The door opens inward, and you nearly stumble right into your boyfriend’s waiting arms. He expertly catches your tea before it can spill everywhere, and before you know it he’s pulled you in and closed the door behind you, casting you back into the half-morning shadows of his room. You hear him place your tea mug on the desk beside his bed as he guides you back toward the comfort of the slightly lumpy mattress.

His hands are warm against your back and ribs. It feels… so… so…  _ so  _ nice.

“Hi.” you murmur up at him with a slightly distant smile, trying to focus on the nice warmth of his hands and not on your uterus attempting to tear itself apart.

“hi.” his own voice is softer, a note of weary fondness touching around the edges of it. “up for telling me what was up, or…”

“Mn.” you follow him back to the bed, and half-burrow yourself into his chest once both of you are laying down again. His hands re-find your lower back and rest there, bone against skin. The intimacy of the moment is not lost on you. “In a minute. When the cramp passes. Just… don’t move your hands, it’s helping.”

“...i might be able to help a little more, if you want... to try, i mean. if you want to try.”

You close your eyes. You’re sure he feels the hesitant shiver that rolls down your spine. His hands start tracing small circles along your skin, the porcelain smooth digits dipping into the divots above your hips and tracing along the lower edge of your ribs.

(those hands could be going elsewhe--)

(no, ew.  _ Bleeding _ .)

“...You'll stop the second I say?” you mumble instead, focusing on the task at hand.

( _ God _ , you love his hands.) 

“if not before,” he confirms.

“Bonehead.” you lean up and press a peck to his cheek. “Okay. I trust you enough to try.”

“okay.” he nods, and you feel the gathering of the magic in his soul, feel the way it travels and collects in his hands against your skin. Chilled, slow, and heavy, like molasses slipping across frosted glass. It soaks into the muscles of your back and a tiny part of you tenses, waiting for the tidal wave, waiting to be pulled under and drowning, half expecting to find your grasp on yourself slipping away.

But… it doesn't happen.

Instead of the tidal wave, the slower push of healing magic comes, strictly controlled and never wandering.  There isn't even a spark of it that strays to your still injured shoulder. It sinks beneath your skin and into your muscles, filling you with a comfortable lethargy as your muscles all loosen from their tense grip. You sink further in against him and let out a soft sigh, closing your eyes to the pleasant aquamarine glow of the room and once again thanking the universe for the twist of fate that let you meet him in the first place.

You’re getting better. Slowly but surely, you’re getting better.

And he’s got the patience to wait for you.


	48. Ebb and Flow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year all! I hope everything goes well enough for everyone, and that good karma will be abundant throughout 2018! Let's make this a good year.

“Have I mentioned lately that you're one of the best things that has happened in my life?” you ask almost an hour later, after the very necessary uncomfortable explanation of what exactly a period is and what it means for you. He’d been attentive, and had asked well-thought-out questions, and seemed genuinely relieved that you weren’t dying. Somehow, his calm acceptance of your fidgety explanation made it marginally less awkward.

“one of them?” he teases, bringing one hand up to brush it through your hair.

“...yeah. You’re like... Solidly number two.” You grin impishly up at him. “No, wait. Number three. Dawn is still and will probably always be number one, Ellie is number two.”

“i think i can live with that.” his grin is indulgent when you pull back enough to see it. “you’re pretty solidly number three for me, as well. paps, o’course, is my number one.”

“Who’s your number two?” you ask, squeaking when he wraps his arms around you and pulls you up to lay on top of him.

“do you want the uncomfortably honest answer or the joke one?”

“...Joke first, then honest.”

“alright.” he nods. His hands find your lower back again with greater ease than before, going back to tracing the dips and curves of your ribs. “joke answer is grillby.”

“You sure that’s the joke answer?” you slip your hands under the pillow and rest your chin on his breastbone. “Grillby’s like, your best friend, and I’m pretty sure you’d literally marry his burgers. Plus, that whole thing with your tab that you told me and Toriel about...”

“well, i’d say he’s definitely still on the list of the best things that have ever happened to me, but… nah, he’s not above you. He’s probably number four.”

You smile and lean forward until you can kiss him. It’s gloriously easy in this position. You let it linger for maybe a few seconds longer than polite, considering, and when you pull back you’re pleased to note that you’re not the only one who’s a little pleasantly dazed by it. “Mmn… Bonehead.” You smile indulgently toward him.

“gumdrop~” he chuckles, once you let his mouth free again. There’s a certain level of smug contentment in his tone from the kiss. The downright casual way his hands slip up under your shirt makes you sigh happily, but you can't afford to be distracted.

“So who’s your actual number two? Who actually _is_ above me on the list?”

His hands still. He looks mildly uncomfortable, suddenly.

“...promise you won’t, y’know… be mad?”

“No promises.” you stick out your lower lip, “Clauses like that make me worry. But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and compromise by saying, I will try.”

He takes a breath, and slowly releases it, his eyes drifting away from yours and toward the ceiling again. His hands slip back down from under your shirt to rest at more polite regions of your anatomy. You try not to feel cheated by the loss.

“alright. it’s... asgore.” He must feel the way you tense, because he tightens his hold around your waist and quickly finds your eyes again. “not saying i’d choose him over you in a general sense, gumdrop.” he adds, “just… in the sense of, best things happening in my life, i… really owe him. paps and i would never’ve had a house if he didn’t give me my first job when he did. i’d never have been able to start paying grillbz back, either.” He breaks eye contact again. “and... we talked, a lot, when things were… really bad. he’s one of the few who, er… _know_.”

You’re intensely quiet for a few seconds, while you bite down on the bilious rise of understanding in your heart. It tastes like ashes in your throat.

“...He… kept you around?” you ask, your own voice softer.

“when i was most thinking about… leaving.” he nods. It’s obvious that he’s still not entirely used to the idea of openly talking about the exceptionally heavy subjects in direct terms, so you don’t press him for the actual admission. Just knowing what he’s referring to is enough to make your heart ache. Besides… there _are_ things you’re still keeping from him, you can’t in good conscience ask him to just... share _everything_ with you.

Instead, you sigh, pressing your cheek against his chest in a gentle hug. “Then I guess I owe him slot number four on the list of the best things to happen to me.” you concede, squeezing yourself down further on top of him. “You in general are number three. Asgore being there for you so you could _be_ in general is a definite plus for me.”

“you mean it?” he pulls one hand free and cards his bony fingers through your hair again. “i… don't want you to feel like you _have_ to be okay with it, you know?” He offers one rueful grin, “i get that it’s kinda an uncomfy subject, and with how things are between you and asgore…”

“Once again, bonehead,” you smile a little wearily up at him, “I don't hold grudges. It's a personality flaw that I've never been inclined to fix.”

It's not entirely true, specifically saying, since you _do_ have a terrible habit of holding grudges against one specific person… it’s just that that person is _you_ . You don’t hold grudges against _people other than yourself._ And you’re not ready to admit such a grievous and terrible personality trait yet, not when you’re still afraid

that you

might

lose him.

_Lose him? You barely ‘have’ him._

You’re not sure if he sees something flicker in your smile, if he somehow senses the dark and ugly feeling that burrows deep and deeper into your soul before you can stop it, but quite suddenly his arm has tightened around your waist and he’s gently pulling your forehead down to press against his.

“i owe asgore my life, but it’s to _you_ i’m in the literal process of giving my heart.” he murmurs, making you keep eye contact with him. “the choice between you and asgore isn’t even a choice for me. i’m alive because of him. i’m _living_ because of you.”

You choke on your words and can feel the painful thump of your heart against his collarbone, and the way your soul surges, pressing outward in a glorious supernova of emotion. It feels like you’re about to burst with a pure orchestra of just… **_love_ ** for him, for this man, your **_boneheaded_ ** boyfriend.

“Don’t _say_ stuff like that…!” you wheeze, feeling tears spring to your eyes. “Especially not when I’m this hormonally screwed! It makes me want to kiss you and not stop kissing you, and-- and--!” You roll off of him and push your face into his jacketed shoulder, whining petulantly into the fabric. “Eugggggh. I’m horny but also gross right now and you _saying_ stuff like that _doesn’t help either case_.”

He gives a soft rumble of a laugh and cards his bony fingers through your hair one more time. “i’ll keep that in mind for later then.” He teases, “when it might be more effective.”

You smack the center of his chest with a petulant “mnffhgh” noise without pulling your head away from his shoulder. He laughs harder at your grumbled displeasure.

“Jerk.”

“you love me.”

Your mind screeches to a halt, your throat closing on your joking reply.  His tone is content, laced with a gentle tease to the words, but you don't think he realizes just how close to the mark he's managed to actually hit.

Is it too soon to…?

“... yeah.” you mumble, anyway, your cheeks burning into his jacket. “I do.”

He seems to still underneath you, even the low lying thrum of his magic disappearing for one frightful moment, and  you worry that you've jumped the gun on that admission. Professional Image is clinging onto Anxiety and both of them are screeching in two part harmony, _how dare you_.  

It’s only been a month, for fuck’s sake...

But… at the same time, somehow, there's another small voice in the back of your mind that's certain, and determined, and fearless. _You love him,_ it whispers. _You love him. Despite everything, you love him._

He wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you tight against him, wrapping himself around you until you're warmly cocooned in the massive bear hug. You let out a faint squeak of surprise, but it’s quickly overwhelmed by the soft encompassing feeling of _him_ when he presses his face into your neck and _nuzzles_.

Your _entire_ face goes red.

“you’re gonna be the death of me.” he mutters wearily into your neck, and you can’t help but giggle and trace your fingers over the dips and curves of his neck vertebrae. He seems to go entirely lax from your movement, and you blink in surprise, tracing the same spot again--

And then you hear a soft, wheezy snore right next to your ear, and realize that he’d relaxed far enough to fall asleep again. Like. Right on top of you. You’re probably not moving for a while.

At least he’s warm.

You sigh fondly and squirm a little under him until you’re also in a semi-comfortable position, and go back to tracing your fingertips across any stretch of your boyfriend’s exposed bone that you can reach.

 _You’d like him,_ you think, inanely, toward the ephemeral thought that comprised your concept of Dawn, and your parents, and… and Michele. _I think you’d all approve. He makes me happy._

* * *

 

You reemerge at a less acceptable time of “almost lunchtime” to the sounds of Papyrus yelling for Sans to stop being a lazybones and that they have things to do. Sans had seemed less than enthused, but you prodded him out of bed with the promise that you were coming along with, and that you were going to make food for everyone.

When the two of you have finally made your way down the stairs again, it’s to the sight of Papyrus in his full “battle body” regalia (he finally changed out of pajamas, it seems) and Undyne wearing her armor. Both of them have an odd look of expectant glee on their faces, one that you aren’t quite sure you trust.

“AHHH, GOOD, HUMAN FRIEND, YOU ARE ALSO FEELING BETTER! COULD WE POSSIBLY TROUBLE YOU TO REFEREE A SPAR BETWEEN UNDYNE AND MYSELF?” he makes a vibrant gesture between himself and Undyne, one which Undyne has to dodge, and which she does with ease. “I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, AM WORRIED THAT ANY OTHER REFEREE MIGHT BE… SOMEWHAT BIASED.” he sends a quick glance at Sans, and you can't help the snort that startles its way out of you.

Oh, Papyrus. No need to tell him you were also probably a little hopelessly biased in that sense too, you could force yourself to pretend you were rooting for both of them equally. Even if a part of you is kind of secretly hoping he whoops Undyne’s butt. Like you're positive he can.

“Oh, yeah, sure, of course. I just hope you two don't expect me to have to break it up if it goes too far, because, uhh, speaking from personal experience, both of you are kind of terrifying.”

You had halfway expected the way Undyne straightens a little bit to preen at that, but are surprised when Papyrus straightens as well, a proud sort of determination in his eyes. Still, it was a pleasant and desired effect from your honesty. Both of their already dangerously gleeful moods had been shifted, however minutely, with the reminder that your own involvement would be honorary at best. You wrap your arms around yourself, one of them tucking up under your still-swollen breasts and supporting them, and you make a mental note (that holds just the tiniest bit of a whine to it) that you’ll have to actually put on a bra if you're going to go outside, because like _hell_ are you freezing your nips off. Like. _Hell_.

Distraction, then, so they don’t drag you outside before you get the chance to do that...

“Just let me make lunch first, okay? I am _so ready_ to eat, you don't even know.” you stick your tongue out before brightening as a brilliant idea forms in your brain. “Hey, you guys wanna learn how to make the best damn grilled cheese sandwiches ever?”

Undyne’s interest is clearly piqued, and you aren’t sure if it’s in a competitive sort of way or a genuinely friendly way, but you’d mostly said that for Papyrus -- and he doesn’t disappoint. There are literal stars in his eye sockets, glimmering with gleeful excitement, and he is bouncing a bit on his feet.

“OOH! YES! PLEASE!” He bounds toward you and scoops you up in an absolutely exhilarated hug, lifting you off of your feet and twirling you around. You let out a breathless “oof!” as he squeezes you, the air being pressed out of your lungs by his enthusiasm and your hormone-achy chest registering a complaint at the extensive pressure.

“Ack, easy Paps, ow--” you didn't mean to let out the faint squeak of pain but the second it slips free he gives a loud gasp and immediately puts you back down, practically leaping back a foot and a half from you. You wrap your arms gingerly around your chest again, supporting your breasts and giving a sheepish grin.

“DID I HARM YOU? OH NO!”

“H-Hey, no, it's not your fault, you just squeezed kinda tight and my chest already hurts, is all.” you shrug your shoulders. The left one aches, and you remind yourself that you should probably stretch it out and change the bandages again when you get your bra on. “No permanent harm done.” Your faint smile grows a bit more comforting when he starts wringing his bony wrists, looking contrite. “Just, as a note, yeah? About once a month, I _hurt._ ” You make a gesture toward your torso area in general. “So it’d be best to be a little more careful.”

“ALRIGHT.” he nods, tentatively, “I BELIEVE I UNDERSTAND. I, THE GREAT AND UNDERSTANDING PAPYRUS, OFFER THE MOST SINCERE OF APOLOGIES.”

“Hah. Yeah, apology accepted, bud.” You smile, feeling a now-familiar content warmth in your soul. “Now, come on, let’s go make those sandwiches, I’m starving.” You glance over your shoulder toward where Sans was when you last saw him, about to ask if he wanted to join you as well, make it a bit of a ‘family event’, but the words fade from your mind when your eyes land instead on him leaning against the stair railing, watching with a tired but affectionate grin on his face. The warmth in your soul flares up in intensity, and you feel your own smile soften again as he startles a bit at having been caught staring.

“Wanna join us, Sans?” you ask, still smiling.

He hesitates, his cheekbones dusted with blue from residual embarrassment for being caught being _sappy_ , before offering his best attempt at a lazy, unaffected shrug. Undyne gives a faint snort behind you.

“eh, some other time. kitchen gets awfully crowded with more than three people in there.” he says.

“Suit yourself.” you shrug back, “Still, want a sandwich?”

“sure.”

“Alright, one _Sans_ -wich coming up.”

You watch as he slouches his way over to the couch to take a seat. Ellie flits over to him and a part of you relaxes. She's still talking to people, not holing herself up in the rafters and blocking people out. Papyrus and Undyne follow you into the kitchen, and you start busying yourself at the stove, getting the frying pan out and turning the heat on.

“Alright, I'm gonna need butter, vanilla extract, and the bread first. Then the cheese. In that order.” You giggle a little when Papyrus bustles to your side with the items you named. You make the first two sandwiches to show them, then shift the spatula into Papyrus’ hands to his immense glee, and scoop up the plates with the sandwiches you made to give to Sans and to eat yourself.

“Is my bra still upstairs in your room or did it mysteriously wind up back in my bag?” you ask him softly as you sit down beside him on the couch.

“definitely mysterious circumstances.” he hums as he takes his plate, though you see his mouth quirk into a familiar grin as he looks at you. “you actually gonna referee their spar?”

“Worth trying.” you quickly chow down on your own grilled cheese sandwich, polishing off half of it in less than a minute. Comfort food is a staple on your period days. “Besides, they’ll be fighting _each other,_ not me. And I guess I'm a little morbidly curious.”

“yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ve seen what Papyrus can do, but have no idea about Undyne’s full potential, I just know she can make spears and is scarily accurate against a running target.”

“you don't wanna know how crazy she can get, trust me.” there's something sobering and twisted in his words, and you look over in surprise with your mouth full of grilled cheese. He's not looking at you, his head is turned toward the floor. His eyes are focused in the middle distance and his smile is entirely insincere. Ellie, on top of the couch, makes a faint twittering noise in concern. You swallow your food.

“Hey.” you bump your shoulder against his. “What's the time?” your finger taps against his wrist, against the bracelet you tied there last night. He startles a bit out of his thoughts, and you're pleased to note that he instinctively looks down at his wrist with the prompt. His expression softens.

“...yeah.” He glances up at you, and his smile returns. “how'd you get so good at that, gumdrop?” You give a soft snicker, looking down.

“To be honest,” you admit dryly, “I'm channeling what Dawn always did for me. Whenever I'd have a panic attack these last four years, I'd call her, and she'd just talk and I'd calm down just listening to her voice, but she always ended the conversation with ‘Ring me whenever’.” you extend your hand to show him the simple gold band around your left ring finger -- a promise ring, ironically enough. “She gave me this before I left. I'm guessing her comment was always to train me to remember the ring. It's been a great way to ground myself ever since.” you hum, folding your hands in your lap and tracing the edge of the ring with your fingertip.

Sans’ eyes linger on your folded hands, almost like he's calling up any memory he has where you've fiddled with your ring, folded your hands together to press a fingertip to it, or otherwise interacted with it, with this new knowledge of its significance. You're sure he'll come up with altogether too many occasions. Your emotional dependence on Dawn has been a terrible truth for as long as you can really remember, and even when she's a Barrier and half a country away, you've carried her with you the entire time.

His voice is softer when he does speak again, and his eyes shift to your face, searching for something you’re not sure you want him to find. “so you asking me what the time is…” he trails off.

“Is meant to get you to look at your wrist.” you nod. “Plus, I mean, it's a good question for the context of _why I'm asking_ , too.”

What time is it? What _timeline_ is it?

He hesitates for only a second, tracing his own fingertips against the lumpy knots of the bracelet, before he pulls his hand free and grabs hold of your own hand. He brings it up to his teeth and presses your knuckles against them for a few seconds. You feel your heart skip a beat as he gently lets go and goes back to eating his sandwich.

God, he’s just… you’re literally just not going to survive this week if he keeps _doing_ shit like that. Goddamn. Smooth-ass motherfucker.

You let out a sound like a deflating tire and shove the other half of your sandwich into your mouth, scarfing it down and absolutely _certain_ that you’re as red as a ruby. You hear him give a little self-pleased snort to your left and push abruptly to your feet, storming over to your bag to pull out your slightly fraying bra and beating a hasty retreat to the bathroom.

God _damnit_ , you’re dating him now, isn’t this stuff supposed to be more bearable? Or at least less capable of absolutely catching you off guard?!

You meet your own gaze in the mirror and scowl at your patchy red cheeks. _Honestly_ . At this rate, you’re pretty much internally cursing out mother nature for making you have to _bleed_ . You could be in there teasing the shit out of him and leading up to something _interesting._

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. Focus, damnit. You have a spar to referee, and that means you have to keep it in your goddamn pants, and it also means you have a bra to put on. Eugh.

Still… your eyes linger on your knuckles, on the spot where he kissed, and you feel your mouth curl into an involuntary smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a lot of really intense excitement, but some necessary setup for the next chapter regardless.


	49. Spar  Me The Details

When you exit the bathroom again, it’s to the gleeful noises of Papyrus exclaiming that he  _ did it _ ,  _ he really did it _ and Undyne yelling that it can’t be as good as you claim them to be-- followed by intense silence on her end and pleased ‘nyeh heh heh!’ing from Papyrus.

You grab your empty plate and duck back into the kitchen to see Undyne staring intently at the sandwich in her hands, while Papyrus is delightedly pulling together a second sandwich for himself. You're pleased to note that Undyne’s sandwich has a large bite taken out of it and it doesn't look burned in the least. Papyrus has certainly been paying enough attention to you in the kitchen, it's nice to see that it's paying off.

“Alright,” you announce, startling Undyne from her existential contemplation of her grilled cheese sandwich, “I'm ready when you two are. No rush.”

Papyrus flips the second sandwich into being and onto a plate with a victorious flourish and turns off the stove in the same movement, a maneuver you note with no small measure of pride. He's really coming along far with his informal lessons. Undyne shakes herself out of her stupor and eats half of her sandwich in two bites, nodding furiously.

“Yeahngmf.” She says around a swallow, “Let's eat fast, I want to see just how good you've actually gotten, Papyrus.”

“PLEASE DO NOT EAT TOO QUICKLY, YOU MAY CHOKE!” he announces, then leans against the counter with his own sandwich and proceeds to eat a third of it in one bite. You would laugh at the irony of that statement, but the simple fact of the matter is that the bite was an average size for his jaw. His big toothy grins were more than just for show.

“Yeah yeah whatever let's  _ go. _ ” Undyne waves his concerns away, easily polishing off the last of her sandwich. You fail to stifle an amused snort and  _ have _ to giggle when she sends a Look in your direction. You can't help it! She's so eager that it reminds you of a wiggly happy puppy. She makes a face at you before putting her plate down on the counter beside you and announcing, “I’ll be outside,  _ don’t _ keep me waiting!”

“I can see why you’re friends with her.” you murmur to Papyrus as soon as she’s out of the room, carrying your plate over to the sink and pulling the step stool around with your ankle. You step up onto it and start scrubbing your plate under a stream of water. “She’s clearly got the energy and the enthusiasm to match yours, bud.”

Papyrus grabs hold of Undyne’s plate, stacking it underneath his own as he finishes his sandwich and hands both of them up to you. You accept them with a smile, setting them in the sink to soak.

“SHE REALLY IS NOT A BAD PERSON,” Papyrus notes, a bit sheepish sounding, as you step down again. “I TRULY AM SORRY THAT YOU AND SHE HAVE BEEN AT ODDS, HUMAN.” He makes a faintly disgruntled noise. “IT IS NOT FUN, SEEING MY FRIENDS FIGHTING WITH ONE ANOTHER.”

“It’s really no big deal, Paps.” You chuckle, reaching out to squeeze lightly at his arm. The bone has no give to it at all, but the gesture is more symbolic than anything. “I’m sure things will work out for the best. Now, come on, let’s not keep her waiting longer than necessary, yeah?” 

He gives one brief sound of affirmation, walking with you to the front door and gallantly holding it open for you. Undyne, you can see, already has a tiny audience of most, if not all, of the kids in Snowdin around her, and she’s got two of the fox kit triplets (you  _ think  _ they’re Malcolm and Leo, Karter’s muzzle is longer, you think) hanging off of her flexing biceps.

“Morning, kids!” you call out, getting a delighted smattering of greetings and a few of the more enthusiastic ones running over to you to bump heads against your stomach and wrap hugs around your waist. “Wanna see something  _ really cool _ ?” You ask.

“Like what?” Kid bounces over to you, giddy with anticipatory glee.

“Undyne and Papyrus are going to spar against one another. Come sit with me, we can all watch.”

The gaggle of children all converge on you on the front stoop, gently shoving at each other in faux attempts to bully others out of the spots beside you. Kid insinuates himself under your arm and refuses to be moved. Vivi manages to snag the other coveted position on your other side, snuggling down with a contented growling noise. Lillia, Sidney’s little sister, wiggles her way onto your lap proper and curls up so you can gently press your chin to the top of her head and keep watch yourself. Leo and Malcolm are the last to join you, seemingly reluctant to let go of Undyne’s arms, but they take up positions on the front stoop as well while Undyne stretches.

“Alright!” She declares, her needle grin wide and challenging. “Show me what you’ve got, Papyrus! Don’t hold back!”

You could swear that you’ve blinked, and they’ve both already summoned weapons out, Papyrus with a long, wicked looking bone club and Undyne (you swallow down a sudden lump in your throat) with an all-too-familiar glowing cyan spear. Kid, seeming to sense your unease, burrows a bit further into your side in an attempt at comfort. You squeeze around his shoulders reflexively and swallow again.

The following exchange breaks your definition of a spar and turns more into a one-sided battle of attrition. Undyne flings spear after spear at Papyrus, which he either dodges (expertly, by your opinion) or blocks with the large bone in his hands. You think he makes a few attempts to retaliate, but you can tell immediately that his heart isn’t really in it. The few attacks he does fire off are openly projected, easy to dodge, and are barely showing any of the power you know he has in him. You can't even get a sense of the bouncy battle theme you picked up when you had been sparring with him; the only sense you get is the brash and encompassing sense radiating off of Undyne, flares of ‘sound’ that peak with every throw of a spear.

Undyne grows visibly frustrated as the ‘spar’ continues, clearly realizing what you can already see. Papyrus is purposefully holding back. It's nothing flashy or obvious, but while you can appreciate the strict control he's got over his magic, you can tell that this isn't what Undyne wants to see. 

“Rragh!” She finally snaps, throwing her spear straight down into the ground. “Time out! You're not even trying!” the unbridled irritation in her voice makes you twitch. Lillia slides off of your lap with the barest poke to her side.

Papyrus looks a little bit devastated by Undyne’s words, and watches with sad eyes as she storms several feet away.

You stand, gesturing for the kids to stay there, out of the way, and walk over to Papyrus. You have to stretch your arm up uncomfortably to squeeze at his shoulder.

“Hey,” you say softly. “I think you were doing great. But listen, I know you're able to keep from hurting her, that's the entire point of a spar, is that its not to really hurt the other person, but…”

He lets out a dejected sounding “Nyoohoohoo…” and you bite your lip,  before pulling back and turning with new resolve to walk over to the visibly sulking Undyne. She glares sullenly at you as you approach, but there's an odd look in her eye that you don't think you trust yet.

“Okay, look.” You say as you walk up beside her. “You and I both know exactly what he's doing and why he's doing it, right?” you keep your voice low, so it won’t carry over to where Papyrus is scuffing his boots miserably in the snow.

“I  _ told _ him not to hold back.” Undyne grouses under her breath, “Why does he still feel the need to?”

“...okay." You sigh.  You're gonna have to explain this, then. "So,  _ you _ know that he is not likely to hurt you, and  _ I _ know that he’s not likely to hurt you, and you know what? He _definitely_ knows he’s not likely to hurt you. He doesn’t want to. And I don’t think a friendly spar is enough of a reason to break through that block he’s got on himself. He’s got incredible control over his abilities and I have no doubt he can neutralize you without any damage if he wanted, and he should  _ realize _ that, but I get the feeling that isn’t enough.”

“So you’re saying that just because he’s scared he’ll  _ hurt me _ he won’t fight me like he means it?” Undyne demands.

“I’m not saying he's _scared,_ I'm saying that a no-risk spar is not enough of a reason for him to fight you like he means it. If it were, you’d already be nursing bruises.” You cross your arms. “Be honest, Undyne, what would you do if he did actually kick your ass? Would you let him into the guard?”

“I--” she cuts herself off, before glaring at the ground in intense thought.

“You wouldn’t.” You answer, when she’s silent for a few seconds too long. 

"It's... not like he hasn't beaten me before, he actually usually _does,_ but I would just--"

“You’d congratulate him and say you’d be upping his training, but you wouldn’t let him in the guard." Your voice is carefully even to keep the incredulous irritation out of it. "Believe it or not, Undyne, Papyrus is  _ not _ an idiot. Hell, if  _ I  _ can see that, he sure as hell can. So to his perspective, hurting you in any way during this is not only pointless, it’s unsavory. He values your friendship enough to not want to hurt you if it doesn’t get him anything in the long run.” you cross your arms, frowning down at her. “He needs a better reason to fight like he means it. If you really want to see what he can do, you have to give him one.”

“...” she stares at you with a renewed intensity, as though considering your words, before giving one sharp nod. “Okay. I have an idea. Can you trust me for like twenty seconds?”

You immediately step back, wary of the look on her face. “Why me?” you ask in a guarded tone.

“Because I might have an idea on how to get him to fight me like he means it, but I need your help.”

“With  _ what _ ?” you really don’t trust this.

“Look, I--” she lets out another aggravated growl, rubbing at the back of her neck with  one hand. She turns and points toward a nearby flower, which is standing upright in the middle of the square. “See that flower?”

“What the hell are you tal--”

“ _ See that flower _ ?” she asks, more aggressively, and you sigh expressively and nod. A spear forms in her hands -- adrenaline surges to life in your veins, you feel yourself flinching, irrational fear that she’s about to skewer you flaring in your soul -- but she’s already turning and flinging it toward the flower--

The spear disappears with an inch to spare.

The flower sways slightly in the wind of its former flight.

“That flower is your face.” She says, very intently, “I need you to trust for twenty seconds, just  _ one spear throw _ , that I can do  _ that _ ,” she gestures toward the untouched flower, encompassing the adrenaline spike in your veins and the spear that disappeared before it hit, “but with you as the target.”

“...you want me to  _ let you _ throw spears at me.”

“If I’m right,” she says, her gaze still intently locked on yours. “Then you won’t even need to worry about the first spear I throw.”

You give her what you hope is a look of unbridled uncertainty, wrapping your arms around your waist. “...You understand why I’m  _ not _ fully on board with that, right?”

“Look, I get it, I haven't made the best impression and you have no reason to trust me, but… I said I was going to try being civil to you, and to lay off the ‘you gotta die’ crap, so I am! This isn't a ‘you gotta die’ thing. This is a…” she hesitates,  grimacing briefly before squaring her shoulders. “This is a ‘give me a chance’ thing.”

You hesitate for a few seconds more, scuffing your boots in the snow underneath your feet. “...I hope you know what you’re doing.” You finally murmur, a pointed look on your face as you meet her gaze. “You mess up, and I don’t think Papyrus will ever forgive you. And I know for a fact Sans definitely won't.” You nod slightly at the tiny flinch she gives at your words, before bowing your head. “Okay. But not without warning the others that this is what we’re doing, okay? I don’t want to freak out Sans.”

“Of course you don’t.” she mutters, shaking her head.

“Because he’s liable to skewer you without asking questions if he thinks you’re legitimately trying to kill me, dumbass.” You stick out your tongue in her direction and turn to walk to the center of the space between her and Papyrus, your shoulders squared and feeling distinctly like you’re about to announce your own intent to step off of a cliff.

“Alright.” You raise your voice, and the quiet murmuring of the kids breaks off. Sans, who has wandered out onto the porch with the kids, meets your gaze and his own expression grows wary. “I want to preface this by saying, I am complicit in my role in what’s about to happen.”

Papyrus tilts his head at you, as you step marginally closer to him and stand, carefully defenseless and still, between him and Undyne. “I believe you can do this, Papyrus.” You say, “I trust you.”

Your back is to Undyne, so you don’t get to see her movements, but you do see the exact moment when Papyrus’ confusion breaks way to instinctual panic, and feel the crackle of magical energy behind you as a shield of bones bursts upward from the ground at your back. One of them displaces your hair -- there’s a solid  _ crack _ sound as Undyne’s spear impacts with his shield.

You turn to look over your shoulder, at the spear stopped an inch from your nose.

The bone wall crumbles apart, dropping the spear into the snow, and Papyrus steps around you to place himself very squarely between you and Undyne. There’s a determined look on his face as he summons the large, intimidating looking bone club again.

“Kick her ass, Paps.” You murmur, feeling a faint grin form on your face. “Show her what you can do.”

The barrage begins anew, and though there’s a part of your brain that is just endlessly screaming, demanding that you get out of there, you force yourself to stay still. Stay a target. Stay a motivator. Papyrus deflects every attack that comes too close to you, throwing lines of bones Undyne’s way with far more ferocity than before. He advances, deflecting the attacks faster and faster, slamming spears to the side and to the ground with an intimidating accuracy.

All at once -- no, it isn’t entirely fair to say that. You can see the exact moment when the tides of the battle turn, when Undyne drops more distinctively onto the defensive and Papyrus’ advance grows more deliberate. You can hear his battle theme in the back of your mind, competing for supremacy with the triumphant trumpeting of Undyne’s own, and--

A wickedly sharp bone jolts up between Undyne’s feet, stopping a millimeter from skewering under her chin, and the battle is immediately over. She raises her hands in defeat, all of the cyan spears dissipating into nothing, and her face breaks out into a vibrant, sharp toothed grin.

“Now  _ that, _ ” she says, “is what I wanted to see.”

The kids on the front stoop let out raucous cheers, all surging up and forward to surround Undyne and Papyrus in a ragtag cluster of limbs and chattering voices. You carefully extract yourself from the menagerie and trudge back over to the stoop, where Sans tugs you down to sit with him.

“you are, without a single doubt in my mind, the most fascinating person i’ve ever met, gumdrop.” he mutters as he pulls your head over to bump his forehead against yours. “please _never_ do that again.”

“Mmn. Not planning on it.” You mutter back. “Glad I did do it, though. Look at how happy Paps is.”

Sans is quiet even as he tangles his boney fingers with yours. You both watch the gleeful confusion of the group in front of you, and… you realize. You’re happy. You really, really are. It surprises you, a little bit, how happy this entire mess has managed to make you.

A month ago, you’d been waking up for another day of practiced monotony, another day of plastic smiles and quiet thoughts that if you just lasted another week, another day, another hour, the day would be better again. A month ago, you’d been whispering to yourself that so long as you breathed you could push off the next panic attack until you were alone and didn’t have to worry anyone about it. A month ago, you’d been coping, and very, very alone.

Today…? Today, you’re surrounded by people who genuinely care about you. You’ve got a job that fills you with genuine joy again, a place that feels like  _ home _ , and honest to god  _ friends _ .

At that point, you think, maybe it’s worth it to have a few reckless terrors along the way.


	50. True Dreaming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy fUCK we're fifty chapters into this BS can I get a HELL YEA HELL YEA HELL FCKIN YEA
> 
> ALSO 500 COMMENTS HELL YEA HELL YEAH HELL FUCKIN YEA
> 
> Let's celebrate with another Frisk and Chara chapter becuase I love my smol trapped children.

The rest of the afternoon, thankfully, goes much more smoothly. You and Undyne continue walking on eggshells around each other for the first hour or so, but the spar between her and Papyrus has definitely been a step in the right direction. It also seems to have eased some sort of underlying tension between Undyne herself and Sans, who seems much more at ease now that the general atmosphere is more calm and enjoyable.

That afternoon is also the first where Papyrus and Undyne announce their intentions of going to rebuild her house… again. Even though you know that Undyne has apparently burned her house down before, from what Sans told you, it still causes you to have to bite down on an amused grin. Your boneheaded boyfriend, beside you, doesn’t bother hiding his own lazy grin as he waves them off. You call out after them as they jog toward the way out of town that dinner will be waiting for them when they get back.

What does surprise you, however, is when Sans quietly pulls you in for a kiss and announces that he’s gonna go take care of some things himself, in the middle of the afternoon on his off day. You resist the urge to make a joke that he’s off to see a second girlfriend -- if only because you forcibly remind yourself that you just started  _ dating _ him yesterday, so if anything like that were the case, then you  _ were _ the second girlfriend.

Instead, you simply nod and wave him on his way, declaring your intention to lay down and watch TV for most of the afternoon. It’s your last off day before going back to work, after all, you’re intending to be lazy!

You settle yourself on the couch with a heaving sigh of contentment, and turn the TV on with the absolutely legitimate intention of flipping through channels endlessly without actually settling on anything at all. You can still feel tendrils of the healing magic that Sans had used seeping through your system, keeping your muscles pleasantly loose and leaving you lethargic and still sleepy.

The empty noise from the TV accompanies your eyes growing heavier and your breathing evening out again. It takes an absurdly small amount of time for you to drop into a doze, and then a deeper sleep.

And then you find yourself in that vast empty place again.

You sigh, and look downward, and sure enough your Soul is floating freely a few inches in front of your chest, casting a low burning firelight for a few feet around you. It seems to shift and glimmer like a tiny flame of its own creation, and you raise your hands to cradle it with another soft breath. There, still at the top of the heart, the little divot of dimmer light is still a prominent feature. There’s a faint haze of golden-red that’s shimmering close around your Soul like a misty atmosphere, with tiny wisps of it drifting up and out from your soul itself on occasion. There don’t seem to be any cracks or outside signs of damage other than the divot of faded ‘scarring’, however. The wisps just seem to be… slipping free.

Still, being here can only mean one thing at this point. Introspection can wait.

_ It’s been a while.  _ You look up without needing to be prompted, and catch sight of the two children standing a few meters away. They’re standing close to one another, and while they aren’t holding hands, you can see the way their pinky fingers are brushing together, likely a tactile comfort. You feel your mouth curl into a small smile. 

_ It has,  _ the preteen acknowledges, and the two of them step forward to stand closer to you. The warm fiery light around you shifts, like an ember burning lower in the fireplace, taking on a deeper ruby tint. It reminds you of a sunset.

_You look happy. Are things going well?_ Frisk asks, tilting their head up to look at you. There's a mild, almost imperceptible clarity to their tired eyes now. They seem more… cognizant. More focused than previous times. You appraise this with a calm smile, and nod your head toward them, noting the quieter, calmer set of the preteen’s shoulders as well. Clearly, the time away from being trapped underground in an endless loop of death has been having a good effect on Frisk. The faint light glowing from their own chest is less of a sickly salmon color, now, and more of a faded rose shade. It’s gained quite a bit of hue. 

_ Yes, _ you answer,  _ At least, I think they are, on my end of things. You yourselves look like you’re doing better. _

The preteen casts one quick, apprehensive glance over toward Frisk, but you don’t think Frisk sees it. Their eyes are still locked on you, and the small, tentative smile that forms across their features seems to change their entire face. It’s like a wave brushing against the sand, soft and soothingly comforting.

_It’s been easier to sleep._ Frisk admits, a bit sheepishly. _Knowing, I mean. Knowing you’re… staying down there. For us._

_She isn’t doing it for me, Friskers,_ the preteen snickers into their hand, glancing over at you again. You incline your head a little bit toward them -- despite the fact that you are willing to claim that you’re doing it for the both of them, you think the preteen  chooses not to believe that. And in the end, sometimes it’s easier to keep up pretenses. And sometimes it’s better to leave certain truths unspoken.

The teen isn't looking for you to care about them, and they have made that perfectly clear.

_ You just focus on taking care of yourselves, alright?  _ You say instead, letting your hands fall from around your soul, so that the glimmering orange heart is in clear view of them both. Frisk in particular takes an almost instinctive step closer to it, seeming to be concerned with the faint wisps of magic escaping it. The preteen’s expression, however, isn’t one of concern, but of  _ intrigue _ .

_ Hm. _ They hum, their mouth curling into the by-now familiar depthless, vaguely malevolent grin as they step forward as well.  _ That’s interesting. _

_ What is? _ You ask.

_ Your soul.  _ They lift a hand to point toward it.  _ It seems to be semi-permeable to magic.  _ They lift one hand toward it, before pausing, seeming to remember themself, and incline their head politely toward you.  _ May I? _

You hesitate, before shrugging. At this point, you don’t suppose you have much of an option either way.  _ Go ahead,  _ you intone.

A small, glimmering fireball of deep burgundy, the color of dried blood, forms above their hand. It’s similar to how Toriel had summoned up fireballs in her battle against you. It drifts close to your soul, and is quickly soaked up by the mist surrounding it, drawn inward in a burst of warmth and jittery energy throughout your system.

You take in a sharp inhale at the feeling of their... Magic.

(It has to be magic, it feels so similar to the various forms of monster magic you’ve been exposed to, but with a peculiarly familiar (taste? texture? consistency? reluctance?) sensation to it that seems uniquely _ human. _ )

It feels like sandpaper and broken glass particulates against the skin -- it’s abrasive and vaguely painful, but not precisely in a way that immediately sparks the self preservation  _ pain _ response in your mind, not like the very hostile sense that Flowey’s attacks had caused.  It isn't pain directed toward  _ you.  _ Quite the opposite, actually, this calls up the very primal instinct in your brain of...  _ protect _ . It’s not a  _ pleasant _ feeling, by any means, but you’ve long come to realize that each person’s magic has a certain feel to it that is associated primarily with  _ themselves _ , and there’s a deep and very instinctual part of you that registers this.

This almost-teen, this  _ child _ , has somehow associated themself and their magic very intrinsically with  _ pain _ . Abrasive pain. Being worn down, broken into shards of glass and then broken further into glass bits, pieces so small that they can definitely never be put back together again, not in the way the whole once was.

You’re not sure how you register all of this, but you know it as truth.

You file away that truth for the time being, however, because your focus right now  _ has _ to be on what’s happening in this moment. Your soul seems to have soaked up the deep burgundy magic without hesitation, as the light of your soul itself has changed -- there is now a distinct patch of that same burgundy color pulsing along underneath, flowing just under the surface as though caught in a current.

_Normally,_ the preteen continues, _human souls can’t intake human-sourced magic. Human souls can’t merge with other human souls under normal circumstances. It takes very specific… requirements…_ _for them to accept other human souls to merge with._

They glance uncomfortably over toward Frisk, and you reason from their obvious discomfort that their story is an anomaly that you will  _ not  _ be getting an elaboration on yet. You gesture for them to continue, inclining your head toward them, and they offer one quick quirk of their lips in wordless thanks. 

_ Magic like that--  _ they pause, shaking their head, _ specifically, human-sourced magic -- would wash along the surface of your soul, causing damage as it tries to get inside the outer barrier that contains  _ **_your_ ** _ very Human magic. The majority of it is treated with the same ‘damage’ aspect as deliberately volatile monster attack magic. If the outer barrier sustains too much damage, it shatters, and the rest of your soul goes with it. But yours seems to almost be a-- a willing conduit. It’s allowing certain kinds of magic to pass through it without damaging the outer barrier. _

_ Which means…? _ You ask, letting out a deep breath and willing the preteen’s magic to seep out of your soul again. More of the mist drifts up from your soul, carrying with it a distinct feeling of forward drive and… determination? Your fingers twitch, like you should be holding onto something, and then the feeling passes. The majority of it has escaped, but you note that there's still a small wisp of it lingering in your soul. It swims along with the current under the surface like a tiny koi fish. 

_ I’m not sure. _ They admit, with a vague, almost academic distance present in their tone.  _ Perhaps that you might have access to your own inherent magic under certain circumstances? Or the magic of others, if you’ve been… exposed to it. That’s kind of what the conduit aspect looks like. _

_ Wait… _ Frisk frowns, staring intently at your soul for a moment before snapping their eyes to their companion.  _ You mean, she might be able to use magic herself? Like, the seven mages? _

_ Humans with the capability of performing their own magic? Maybe. _ The preteen shrugs,  _ I’ll admit, this is a first for me. I’ve never actually seen a human with this soul quality before. None of the other Fallen had it. _

_ What about you? _ You ask, blinking.  _ You can use magic. You just did. _

_ I’m not exactly a normal Soul, as you might have guessed. _ Their tone is biting, sarcastic, and carries no humor despite the joking uptone. You wince and nod your head shortly toward them, acquiescing to the dropping of the subject.

_ So… what does this mean? For me, I mean.  _ You glance down at your soul again,  _ I mean, the ‘possibly able to do magic’ bit clocks in as a solid ‘yeah basically’, since I've already like… apparently done magic? _

_ You have?  _ Frisk’s eyes go wide.

_ Yeah, briefly. Sparring with Papyrus. He sent this huge bone at me… _

_ And you jumped over it?  _ The preteen sounds dismissive,  _ Nah, that was Papyrus helping you-- _

_ I didn't jump over it, _ you correct them, cutting them off very gently.  _ I went through it.  Looking back on it, I basically must have had a big surge of magic myself, got like… enveloped in orange light, and I  basically ran right through the huge bone. I kind of personally dismissed it as a one time thing out of necessity, didn't think it'd be something I could replicate at will, but if what you're saying is true… if I can actually learn to control it, then it might be worth trying to master, I think. Temporary invulnerability against otherwise fatal attacks sounds like a skill I want to have readily at hand. _

_ Orange... Bravery magic.  _ Frisk’s mouth curls into a smile, soft and sleepy and faintly, dubiously delighted, like they’ve stumbled across an interesting discovery.  _ Works when the affected target is moving. You… must have cast it on yourself, I guess?  _ They glance over at their friend again, tilting their head as if asking for confirmation. Their friend nods, and their eyes soften marginally.

You're struck by the sudden feeling that there might be a second conversation going on underneath the one you're participating in. One that, in a plane that already requires no voice, takes it a step further -- it requires no words. This is something shared, and very intimate, between the two of them alone.

_ You really know a lot about all this,  _ you note, instead, and they both look back over toward you with a start. Frisk tenses for a second, before shuffling on their feet.

_ Been down there a long time. _ They admit.  _ Longer than I can remember. _

_ That's an understatement.  _ Their friend mutters.  _ Can you even remember how old you are anymore? _

_ Physically, I'm still 10.  _ Frisk murmurs, with a shrug. They leave it at that. The unspoken implications are enough to make you wince.

Years of attempts, years of failures, enough time to forget how much time there had even been. No chance for growth, but no room for continued childhood. An endless limbo.

You're intensely glad, suddenly, that your timeline hopping is much shorter term than theirs seems to be. And even more resolved in your choice to stay. 

_ What about you? _ Frisk asks, their head turned toward the preteen with an insincere note to their voice. The preteen huffs and turns their head away, not deigning to answer. The tension in the air is enough to make you shuffle your feet, cradling your soul between your hands again.

_ Um.  _ You clear your throat, without actually clearing your throat (some things about this place still confuse you, but you roll with it),  _ Reiterating and asking again, what does this whole…  _ you gesture weakly to your soul again,  _ …magic permeability thing mean, specifically, for me? _

_ Nothing immediate, I don't think.  _ The preteen shrugs.  _ Just an interesting thing that means you might be able to do magic. The most immediate thing you'll notice is probably just a heightened sensitivity to magic,  and…  _ they trail off when you make a face at them.  _ You've probably already noticed that,  _ they allow instead, shrugging once more,  _ Honestly it more just explains why it was so easy to forge a link like this, your soul probably met us halfway and welcomed us in by the looks of things. _

_ Oh… so it's not like, immediately concerning, then? _

_ Honestly, not really?  _ The preteen looks up at you and tilts their head slightly,  _ it doesn't look like its sustaining damage other than the death related kind, so... _

_ It's just cool.  _  Frisk announces with a sort of quiet finality. You offer one short laugh and nod down at them, feeling your mouth curl into a softer, gentler smile. 

_ Well, I'll grant you that. _ You nod, feeling a new sort of resolve settle beneath your skin as your soul finally drifts down close to your chest again.  _ How are things up top? _

_ Crazy, _ the preteen snorts,  _ the police have been beating off enthusiastic journalists for the last week and a half, they're prowling like coyotes. No one's allowed across the police line, the tour company is going nuts. _

_ I’ve been the only one allowed across the line,  _ Frisk nods thoughtfully,  _ And I don’t think that’ll be continuing much longer. They’ve started probing to see how far down the fall goes -- I think they’re trying to figure out if you could have even survived it. _

_ Er…  _ You glance down at yourself, blinking,  _ Well, if I’m dead then it’s not a bad afterlife, but I don’t think I am. _

_ Yeah, but it's pretty likely that they're gonna conclude you couldn't have survived. It was a sixty or seventy foot drop.  _ Frisk shrugs.  _ And most folks don't register magic as a viable protection from that.  _

_ Which is to say, you dropped the first fifty or so feet, got caught by the protective magic laid over that room, and only really sustained damage from a hard landing of about twenty feet.  _ The preteen clarifies at your brief look of confusion.  _ Still a drop of about two stories high, but it's survivable. _

_ Hurts like hell, though.  _ Frisk grins, briefly. 

_ You're ten, you shouldn't be that blasé about cursing.  _ You shoot back, grinning right back at them. 

_ It's just the word hell!  _ Frisk puts their hands on their hips.  _ I've heard it enough times, it's not like I'm just blurting out the F-word! _

_ What, you mean fuck--?  _ the casual tone that the preteen uses is cut off swiftly by Frisk, who reaches over and presses a hand over their mouth with a low whine. You watch them both shove affectionately at each other before bursting into giggles holding onto each other's arms and seemingly holding each other upright. The sight warms your heart in an almost parental sense--

You don't think you've ever seen either of them laugh before. It's… reassuring, somehow. Like everything is right with the world, at least for this moment. They're still able to be kids.

_ I think that about covers it, though,  _ Frisk wheezes a bit as they slowly stop giggling with their friend,  _ checking in, I mean. We should probably get back, I won't get away with napping in the middle of the afternoon for much longer. _

_ Yeah.  _ Their friend sighs,  _ You go ahead and head back, okay? I’ll be there in a couple of minutes. _

_ Okay. I’ll see you soon. _ Frisk nods, still smiling faintly, and they lift a hand to press the back of their hand very gently against their friend’s cheek. It’s a soft gesture -- quiet and affectionate, something that lets them brush their fingers briefly through the preteen’s curly hair for a few seconds -- and while it’s full of love and certainty, you’re pretty sure it’s entirely non-romantic. The preteen lifts a hand to clasp it around Frisk’s, their expression softening into a gentle smile of their own, but there’s no hint of flustered embarrassment at the gesture -- just… depthless, boundless adoration and loyalty.

Then Frisk turns, and their hand falls away from their friend’s, and they walk a few feet away into the deeper darkness-- and disappear in a short burst of pale rosy light. Their friend turns toward you and their smile falls.

_ Real quick, _ they mutter, shuffling on their feet.  _ You being a conduit, um… means my magic is probably going to affect you, when I leave. So… sorry, in advance. Whatever happens, try to keep in mind that you’re… not the one going through it.  _ They shuffle awkwardly again, biting their lip, before quickly stuttering again,  _ S-Sorry again-- nothing personal--bye! _

_ Wait--! _ You reach toward them, but a flash of burgundy light and they’ve already disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmmmmmagic. -jazz hands- 
> 
> Also, keep an eye out for the side fic that I'll be posting in a bit here, featuring scenes that are definitely happening in Bystander Effect but because of very limited POVs you will likely never see actually IN The Bystander Effect. These are the scenes that MC is not present for and will almost definitely contain an excess of Bunfire for my soul. Updates to it will be much more sporadic and whenever I feel like it.


	51. The Stuff of Nightmares

The world around you shifts into an all-too-familiar-at-this-point golden hallway, and you’re struck by a wave of vertigo for a moment before your head clears and you get the chance to look around. You sight Sans leaning against a pillar a ways down the hallway, with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket and his chin pressed down into the fuzz around the collar. Your initial spike of hope is squandered immediately -- he doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge your presence, and if there’s one thing you can say with some measure of certainty, it’s that Sans has grown alarmingly and consistently aware of your presence.

You feel your gaze pulled away from him, not of your own volition, and realize with an internal start that you’re not yourself. The eyes you’re looking out of turn down to a pair of scarred, calloused, dirty hands the color of soured caramel, sallow and yellowing with an unhealthy tremor to the fingers. In the left one, there’s a heavy kitchen knife, the blade serrated and oddly, meticulously clean. The handle, however, seems to be coated with a pale powder that burns against your skin. You watch the left hand weigh the knife, and feel a hiss of pain be swallowed down. There’s a slash of deeply burned, charred and peeling skin where the knife rests.

You realize, rather distantly, just what exactly this is. 

_ Here we go. _ The preteen’s voice echoes in the back of your head, but you know it isn’t directed at you. There is no response. Your heart breaks a little at that.

You feel yourself-as-Frisk… or maybe as their older friend, right now, you’re not entirely sure anymore… walk your way along the hallway toward Sans. The knife hangs heavy from your (their?) hand, clinging to fingers that barely seem to want to hold onto it anymore. You come to a stop about ten feet from Sans, who finally lets out a heaving sigh, pushing himself off of the pillar with an almost bored looking grin.

“back again, huh?” He asks. Rhetorically, you think. He doesn’t seem at all surprised.

Your shoulders move, a shrug.

“you know the deal.” he shrugs right back. “another step and it’s out of both of our hands.”

Your borrowed mouth curls into a sickly, humorless smile, one that says absolutely everything and yet nothing at all. You can feel adrenaline already surging through your veins, can feel the way that your heartbeat is hammering in your chest, anticipation and dread mixing into a toxic intoxicant in your system.

_ It isn’t me. _ You try to remind yourself,  _ This isn’t me. This isn’t me.  _

It’s hard to believe. It feels  _ intimately _ real.

Your feet step forward, and Sans’ rictus grin locks into place -- his eye sockets go dark and foreboding, and the left one blazes up with a stark circle of cyan-yellow light, and then--

* * *

 

You wake up screaming.

It’s a feral, terror-ridden shriek, a  _ fearing-for-my-life _ scream. It’s one that leaves your throat raw and which echoes in the house around you, one that pushes all of the air out of your lungs and leaves you heaving for breath. You jackknife up from the couch and flail as your momentum carries you off of it, grunting in pain as you hit the floor --  _ hard _ . Your bad shoulder screams at you and you bite down hard enough on a sob that you taste the tell-tale coppery gush of a split lip.

By the time the stars have cleared from your vision and you’ve managed to push, creakily, into a sitting position on the floor again, your heart rate has finally begun to slow down. You press your face into your hands, trying to stem the blood flow from your lip, hissing air through your teeth and violently shaking.

“...whoa.”

Your eyes snap upward, wide and wild, and land on Ellie, who is hovering a few feet above you and seemingly hesitating to come much closer before she finds out your emotional state. You lean your head back against the couch, close your eyes again, and force yourself to breathe (you’re getting a little better at that, at catching yourself before you start to hyperventilate). In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Nice and slow, just like Sans has prompted you before.

“I’m okay.” You say, softly, once you think you can say it and mean it. You open your eyes again and watch as she hovers down slowly to land on your curled up knees. “A little winded, a little spooked, and I’m probably gonna have to check my shoulder, but I’m okay.”

You lean your head forward again, and Ellie leans hers up toward you until she can press her small head against the bridge of your nose, letting out a soft crooning noise.

“It sounded bad.” She says. It’s not necessarily a question, but you appreciate the concern she’s showing anyway.

“Nightmare.” you quirk your mouth into a crooked smile. “I’ll live.”

“...” you see her close her own eyes and sigh, pressing a bit forward into your nose herself. “Do you wanna talk about it?” There's a note of something... so tired, in her voice. She knows something's up and that you're not telling her everything, and you can't help but feel guilty that you were trying to hide it. You're more than a little bit overwhelmed by everything.  


You lift your hands up from the ground to gently press your fingers along her spine, scratching very gently under her feathers and then smoothing them down again. “...Yeah. I think... I really should." you mumble, tiredly, "At this point, I don’t… I don’t think I can handle keeping it all to myself anymore.” You lift your head again, wincing as your bad shoulder gives out another throb. “Let me check my shoulder first, alright? Then we’ll talk.”

“Alright.” Ellie flutters up as you push to your feet again, shuffling over to the bathroom under the stairs. She flies after you, hovering behind you as you peel your shirt up and off and then carefully unwrap your shoulder.

Some of the scabbing seems to have split, and there’s a few trickles of oozy blood bubbling up out of those spots, but for the most part it doesn’t look too bad -- it seems like you just jarred it pretty bad. You prod gently at the spot under your collarbone with the biggest split in the scabbing, watching the skin color shift between cyan and yellow with the pressure.

It… It’s stupid, but you kind of can’t help but think it looks… pretty damn badass, honestly. It’s kinda like a holographic tattoo. Plus, like… the scar itself is gonna be pretty badass when it heals, too. 

You just know that you’re not gonna be at all enthusiastic about telling people how you got this scar that looks very distinctly like you got chomped by a shark with glowstick goo injected into your skin. Telling people that you yelled at a kid to bite into your shoulder so you could swap your hold while hanging for both of your lives is just going to implant  _ ideas _ about you. Heroism ideas. And honestly, screw that.

It wasn’t heroism. It wasn’t anything more than the only thing you think you really could have done in that situation. It was bad luck and desperate thinking.

Your leg was shot, so you fell when you were trying to catch him. You caught the bridge with your off hand, with the arm that had already been injured. Kid didn’t have arms to hold onto  _ you _ in any other way. You had a limited amount of time before your grip was going to fail you.

You were just grateful that your stupid plan  _ worked _ , even if it did almost get you killed. At least Kid was safe.

You let out a breath and reach for the washcloth, running it under cold water before starting to dab away the bleeding bits. Your eyes meet their mirrored counterparts, and you realize you’ve got new stress lines around the corners of them that definitely weren't there a month ago. Did you... always look this _tired_?  


You drop your gaze to the sink again, grimacing. “D’you…” you start, keeping your gaze turned down. “D’you ever like… wonder how you got to where you are? Like… you look back on your life, and have this very distinct Point A versus Point B moment, and just…” 

You shake your head, and the rest of you is starting to shake as well. 

“All of the individual steps make  _ sense _ , you  _ know _ how you got from Point A to Point B, but at the same time you just sort of... “ you put the washcloth down, leaning your head into your free hand and trying to rub some of the tension out of your eyes. “...I don’t know. You just sort of-- wonder, I guess." your eyes meet their mirrored counterparts again. "When did this become normal for me?”

“How d’you mean?” Ellie asks, lighting down on the sink counter so she can look up at your face. 

You let out a weak laugh and roll your weight to the side until you can sit down on the toilet, keeping your face in your hands. You’re not sure you can handle letting her see how shaken you are by all of this.

“My closest friend down here is a bird,” you say, bluntly, “magic is real, monsters are real, I'm working for a flame elemental, living with two skeletons and a fish lady, the king of all monsters has good reason to want me dead, and I'm  _ absolutely motherfucking terrified _ of a buttercup with a pencil drawn  _ face _ .” You pull your head up from your hands to look wearily over at her, “I’m even sorta _ dating _ one of the aforementioned skeletons…” 

Ellie’s expression has grown more concerned, the longer you speak. She hops up into the air, fluttering over to land on your knees again, and you give a weak, halfway hysterical giggle.

“I just--” you force yourself to take a breath, pulling your back straight and exhaling slowly. “I just have this, this  _ terrible feeling _ like it’s all gonna catch up with me at some point and I’m gonna reject the changes in my life entirely… and I don’t want that. I’m--scared? Sc-Scared that I’m gonna like… lose the choice… to myself? --it’s stupid. It’s really fuckin’ stupid.”

Ellie lets out a soft, thoughtful warble of a croon, fluffing up her wings in thought. “...not really.” she says, and your eyes snap back down to her. “You…  _ did _ only fall down here a month ago. It’s not really that unbelievable that acclimating to all of this is gonna be hard for you… you’ve got a place to call home now,  which you said before is a big deal, and people who care about you, which is also kinda new for you, and then there’s the whole, you dying thing, and the weird time travel stuff, which makes everything even more complex and weird compared to what you’re probably used to...”

You sigh, closing your eyes. 

“...It gets weirder.” You finally admit. “I’ve been having these... dreams... that connect me with the kid I saved when I first fell down here, and...” you grin without any humor. “I think they were definitely supposed to be the protagonist of the weird, heroic-quest type turn my life has taken, if that makes sense? So like, I’ve been having dream-conversations with the actual chosen one, and  _that's_ weird, and they’ve also kinda given me the option that I can… basically back out.”

“Back out?” Ellie repeats.

“Full reset.” you say, echoing what Sans had called it. “I never fall down here. The last month basically never happens.” You look down and meet her gaze, “I never meet any of you.”

Her feathers fluff up in clear alarm, “You’re not--”

“I’m not.” You agree, quickly, “I don’t want to. That’s-- kind of why I’m afraid. Like… this is all so  _ absurdly insanely _ different from where I was a month ago, Ellie, I can't emphasise that enough. And I  _ like _ this, I like where my life is at right now, I… _like_ being who I am now, I don’t… I don’t want to  _ lose _ any of this. I’m just… afraid. Because it’s so different. What... if--” You cut yourself off, shaking your head.

“Say it.” Ellie commands, softly. “Talk to me.”

“--what if  _ my _ magic forces a reset without me wanting it?” you force out, wrapping your arms around your waist and trying to hold yourself in. “What if I lose this? What if I lose  _ you, _ and  _ Sans _ , and  _ Papyrus  _ and  _ Sidney _ and  _ everyone _ …?” Your eyes are burning. You don’t want to cry right now, but it feels increasingly likely that you’re going to. “...the thing that scares me the most, though… is I don’t think I would even realize I’d-- lost anything.”

“You’re not going to.”

“I don’t have any way to--”

“You  _ do _ .” Ellie cuts you off. “You said it yourself, you  _ don’t _ want that. You don’t want to lose us. Magic is _all_ about intent, and as long as you want with all of your heart to  _ stay _ … there’s no way  _ at all _ that your magic could reject this. And even… even if it  _ did  _ happen, you’re not going to lose us. _Ever._ I promise that.” she fluffs up her feathers. “Sans remembers resets, sorta, remember? You really think he'd forget  _ you _ ? You? He  _ adores _ you. He’d find you.  _ We’d _ find you. We’d find a way to get you back.” she takes off from your knees again, hovering in front of your face and pressing her head to your forehead. “No matter the Barriers.”

You lift your hands to give her a place to rest on, letting out a shaky breath and nodding against her head. “...I’m sorry I’m like this.” you admit. “You just… you just lost your  _ mom _ , you shouldn’t have to be comforting  _ me _ over something this dumb.” 

“We’re both going through a  _ lot _ of shit.” she says, and you pull back, surprised--you’ve never heard her curse before. “We should at least be able to help each other through it, right?”

“Feels like you’re doing most of the helping.” You laugh, weakly.

“You  _ need _ most of the helping, right now.” she teases back, trilling out her own little giggle. “You’re the one working yourself up worrying about what-ifs.”

“...fair point.” You sigh. “I still feel kinda dumb about it, though.”

“You kinda are.” she trills out another giggle. “But we all kinda love you for it, so it’s okay.”

She takes off from your hands again, and you sigh and scoop up the first aid kit to start rewrapping your shoulder. You both hold your silence for a few moments while you work, before you finally speak up again. “Please don’t tell Sans.”

“Why not?”

“Because the kid has a friend.” you mutter, “And their friend did some really bad things. And… I don’t think Sans would react well if he found out I’ve been talking to both of them.” You duck your head a bit further. “He would judge. It’s what he does.”

There’s another moment of silence, where you can feel Ellie’s gaze lingering on you. It’s heavy. Questioning.

“Yeah,” she finally says, “I guess you’re right.”

* * *

 

Sans’ return is celebrated with a peck on the cheek, breaking open the new canister of tea he's brought back for you, and the both of you curling up together on the couch to watch a movie (somehow the skele-bros have a foraged old VHS player and a small stash of Disney movies,  _ hell _ yes, Lion King all the way). Ellie makes a spot for herself on your knee and consents to your idle fingers tracing the lines and muscles of her wings -- in fact, the quiet scratching and smoothing seems to ease the tension out of her small form.

You don’t mention your nightmare to Sans. You have a lot to think about, and a lot of new information about him to process, about a side of him that you hadn’t known about before, but you shake the thoughts from your head. The entire thing was fucked up on several different levels, for all parties involved, and you like to think you’re sensible enough to realize that. 

You understand that he has a very viable reason to be biased against the kids for what they wound up doing. He was the one who had to go through that, and you don’t want to judge him for that. The fact remains, however, that you’ve already decided _and_ given your word that you’re going to give them a fair chance to do better, now that they’re out of that situation.

And so far, they have been. There have been hiccups, but they have been fair to you.

You refuse to judge any of them for what they’ve done, now that the situation never needs to come up again.

Now all that remains is to make  _ sure  _ that it never has to come up again.

No matter the cost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cries and just posts this at 1 am on a friday
> 
> I don't know where all my self control has gone anymore


	52. This Chapter Took Me Two Months And I Hate It

Life falls back into some semblance of a routine for the next few days. You head back to work, Sans and Papyrus go back to their sentry positions, Undyne alternates between remedial training for the K9 unit and continuing to work on fixing her house again. Whenever she’s working with the Dog Squad, you make a point of keeping all of them hydrated and fueled up with snacks, bringing things out periodically to where they’re practicing in the square.

Your evenings settle back into something like blissful monotony as well, though you’re not sure you can use that term in its purest form -- you learn rather quickly that nothing involving Undyne can ever truly lay claim to the word ‘monotonous’. Or ‘calm’. Or ‘routine’.

You go to bed more than once in those few days with over-exposure headaches. It’s not necessarily that you dislike being around her, it’s just that she’s…  _ very _ extroverted, and quite frankly you’ve gotten a bit introvert-spoiled with Sans and Papyrus. After a month of getting used to being around only the two of them during your quiet time, adding a third and much more…  _ enthusiastic _ roommate (temporary as she may be) is a little bit overwhelming. It doesn't help that she seems to bring out the more extroverted side of Papyrus more. 

Two days after the spar, Undyne had managed to catch you in a terrible mood. Your hormones were still freaking the fuck out, you felt gross and already felt a tension headache forming at the base of your skull, and you were beginning to really fucking hate your period because for some  _ god forsaken reason _ , everything that Sans was doing was making you a needy, unsatisfied knot of unfulfilled sexual tension. Undyne made a quip -- you honestly hadn't even really heard it, hadn't registered  _ what _ she said, only her vaguely sarcastic tone -- and you had whirled on her and snarled that you really weren't in the mood for her usual shit.

She had been taken aback long enough for you to realize what you had just said, and hadn't really responded while you stammered out apologies, tripping over your words and putting your burning face in your hands. The stinging of your eyes had alerted you to the fact that your fucked up hormones were definitely playing a role in your erratically flip flopping mood swings. As long as you were on your cycle, you didn't think you were going to be a very fun person to be around. 

You are… not ashamed to admit you start taking early morning walks, after that. You make breakfast in the mornings and then pull your boots on and trek out into the early morning snow, your hoodie pulled up to protect your ears from the wind and your feet carrying you aimlessly around town, out into the woods, and -- more and more often -- wandering out out town entirely into Waterfall.

You acquaint yourself quite well with the River Person, and eventually even manage to dismiss the vaguely creepy sing-song quality of their voice and the slightly ominous statements they sometimes make. 

You establish yourself as a welcome guest at Gerson’s shop before the doors are officially open. You swap quiet stories over honey and lemon tea, and you readily let him lead those story swapping sessions. He's a wealth of knowledge for vast portions of history you were never aware of, and seems to enjoy reminiscing about his valiant efforts during the war. He’s incredibly patient with your fumbling questions for clarification, as well, and surprisingly forthcoming with the less pleasant stories, the scarier parts of heroism that you find yourself relating to far more easily. He also seems more than willing to commiserate with you about working in retail, which in and of itself is great fun.

You yourself tell less-eloquent stories of your own childhood, and open up a bit with prompting about what it had been like, being a small child with terror brewing constantly underneath your skin. You reminisce about the first time that you’d gotten so freaked out by something that you had bolted to the nearest tree and skittered up it like a spooked cat, and how a then-unknown wisp of a girl with a wicked grin and thin, wispy blonde hair had climbed up to keep you company. Your voice goes soft and fond when you remember Dawn’s first words to you: “You don’t gotta climb down just ‘cuz they say, but you shouldn’t be lonely up here either.” Three other kids had taken her cue and climbed up to sit with you as well, and you’d held court over a small mutinying force of second graders.

You'd been friends with Dawn ever since that day, and she'd made sure to always be there when you needed her. Your voice shakes a little when you talk about her.  


You wade through the piles of trash at the bottom of the largest waterfall sometimes, not really looking for anything in particular but passing time doing something mildly interesting anyway. The sound you make when you manage to find, wonder of wonders, an unopened plastic package containing a slightly older model Venus razor (!!!) is not quite human. You return home clutching it to your chest like a priceless artifact, then barricade yourself into the bathroom for a luxuriously long hot shower. You step out with your pants rolled up to your knees so you can rub your blessedly smooth legs together while you walk. It's almost alarming just how much of a difference it makes in your overall mood -- you feel (perhaps ironically) much more  _ human  _ now. 

(Incidentally, Sans seems almost as mesmerized by your clean shaven legs that evening, a fact which leaves you feeling particularly smug. If… a little squirmishly unsatisfied. He has his hands all over your legs, for God sake, and at this point you think you might end up jumping his bones (snrk) as soon as you're certain you're no longer bleeding.)

(God, is that too fast? Are you being desperate? Are you letting your hormones derail your common sense and better judgement?)

( _ Yes _ , whispers Hormones,  _ Because there are better things to listen to sometimes than your better judgement. Bang your boyfriend. Get laaaaaaai-duh. _ )

The fourth evening after the spar, you come home from Grillby’s and fall bonelessly face down on the couch. You seem to have finally gotten past the no-patience-irritation stage of your period, which means you’ve just gotta deal with the excessive tiredness and the unending sexual dissatisfaction and then you should be in the clear.

If there’s at least one thing that this week has been able to provide you, it’s the excuse to start expanding your horizons a little bit from the limits of Snowdin Town and woods. Waterfall might only be the neighboring region, but it seems enough, for now, to settle your twitchy need to move. It’s not terribly bad yet but it’s enough to make you a bit restless, and you’re sure the others have probably noticed your distraction by now.

You don’t lift your head when you hear heavy footsteps on the stairs, coming down to greet you -- you know that it’s Sans, you recognize his gait and the way that your heart skips a beat. You simply make a soft whine when he reaches the bottom floor to acknowledge that you want him to come over to you. He does so automatically -- you think he was actually walking to you initially and you probably didn’t need the whine, but screw it, you’re emotional and tired and you want your boyfriend.

You let yourself be gently prodded until you roll over, and then he gently pushes your shoulders and head up enough for himself to sit down. He immediately lays your head back down in his lap, and  _ God _ , who gave him the right to be this perfect, this sweet, this…

“hiya.” he grins down at you, starting to run his bony fingers through your hair. You give a soft, absolutely contented hum and lean into his hands. He should, by all means, feel bony and uncomfortable because, you know, he’s made of bones and all, but you recognize the soft buzz of magic making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and giving you goosebumps. It’s a vast improvement over your original reaction of blatant panic and terror whenever you felt magic -- it still gets you, a little bit, but you rationalize that it’s  _ Sans _ and Sans is  _ safe _ . 

He continues brushing his hands through your hair, easily working out the tangles and knots from a long day of restlessly running your own hands through it. A part of you wants to complain that you’re all sweaty and gross but honestly, you’re just enjoying the attention. You’re tired and over-emotional and your boyfriend is absolutely perfect and you  _ love him.  _ You love him so much it feels like you’re going to overflow with it.

In fact...

“I love you.” you announce, letting your eyes close. It feels like shedding a heavy quilt, being able to just say it out loud, like settling down under the stars to let yourself feel free and untethered. You feel his hands go still.

“...yeah?” he asks, suddenly sounding a bit breathless and choked up. You open one eye again to look up at him quizzically, tilting your head a bit further into his hands. His entire face has gone blue, and there’s… there’s tears at the corners of his eye sockets. But even still, he looks so astonished and… genuinely  _ happy.  _ You feel your own expression soften.

You reach up to press your hand to his cheek, feeling yourself welling up even more undeniably with love for him, and he lets out another soft, choked up noise before leaning into your hand. He felt that -- you’re suddenly certain of it.

“Yeah.” you reply, even more softly, brushing your thumb tip against his cheek and wiping away a slightly overwhelmed tear that slips free from his eye socket. “I know it’s still kinda soon. Like,  _ really soon _ , we've only been dating for a week, I only met you, what, a month ago? Like… by all accounts it’s too soon to just… say it, like this. And you don’t have to say it back if you’re not ready, but… I want to say it, because it’s true. I want you to know, Sans, I love you, I love you, I love you.” you smile up at him. “I think a part of me did as soon as you called yourself a bonehead the first time.” 

He lets out a choked off noise and curls down over you, pressing his forehead against yours and shaking slightly there. He doesn't move much from that spot, except to shift his weight so he can wrap his arms around your shoulders and press his face into your neck. You hook your own arm up and around his back to squeeze in a gentle hug.

“you’re braver than i am.” he murmurs shakily, and you turn your head enough to peck his cheek in understanding. He can’t say it back yet, but that’s okay. You're still kind of surprised that you yourself can say it this easily. You kind of think it's gotta be something about your hyped up hormones,  but either way, there's just… no doubt in your mind, really. It snows in Snowdin. It's hot in Hotland. You love Sans, your boneheaded boyfriend. This is just...a fact, now. And you want to say it as many times as you can.

Besides, the way he squeezes tightly around you is more than enough of a reciprocate response. 

You both stay there for a minute or two longer, holding onto the moment and just soaking up the comfort of each other's presence. Finally, though, he pulls away and looks back down at you again with a drained sort of smile.

“So how was your day?” you ask up at him, quirking your own mouth into a brief, contented grin. “I hope it was less exhausting than mine.”

“hard call, i find a lot of things exhausting.”

You snort, and note that his grin grows a little bit. He goes back to running one of his bony hands through your hair. You latch onto the other one and pull it into a spot where you’re both comfortable, so that you can trace your own fingers along the contours and the invisible joins of his finger bones.

You honestly could probably sit and play with his hands for hours if he would let you. And he probably would let you, as long as you let him play with your hair in return. Which you are  _ completely down  _ for.

“...to actually answer your question, though, my day was  _ really _ exhausting.” he adds after a while.  


“Yeah?” you stick out your bottom lip in sympathy.

“yeah. started out kinda bad in the first place,” you glance up at him to see him tilting his head back against the couch. “i keep sleeping through your alarm. hate waking up without you there, if it weren’t for your little gift…” he lifts his hand from your hair to dangle the tangled knotted mass of ripped fabric hanging from his carpal bones in front of your eyes, before returning his hand where it was, “...then i’m pretty sure it mighta been  _ really  _ bad.”

“Do you want me to start waking you when I get up?” you ask, genuinely, a note of uncertainty in your voice. “You're like me,  we both like our sleep, and would sleep until the afternoon if we got the chance, I didn't want to take that away from you just because I've got myself on a strict schedule to keep that from happening.”

“mm. i’d  _ prefer _ it if you just stayed in bed with me a little longer, but…” he scratches behind your ear lightly and you let out a soft little trill of delight because it feels nice. He reacts accordingly, continuing to gently pet and scratch at various spots of your scalp, reducing you to a softly humming contented relaxed mess.

“Well... I guess I don't  _ have _ to go on my early morning walks...” you offer languidly, letting your eyes close again.

“...i wouldn't mind if you dragged me on a few. just to see.” he says back, more quietly. “how about a compromise? some mornings you drag me along, some mornings you stay in.” the slight squeeze that he gives of the hand you’ve appropriated so you can trace your fingers over the bumps of his knuckle bones makes you smile, without opening your eyes.

“Deal.” You squeeze his hand back and both of you lapse back into your quiet appreciation of each other's presence for a few more minutes. 

“Where's Ellie, by the way?” you ask after an indeterminate amount of time. “If you know, I mean.”

“i think she said something about going to talk to tori about some kind of artifacts you keep stumbling on, but I'm not really sure why she's not back yet.” he answers lazily. You open your eyes again to see that his own eyes are closed, and he looks relaxed enough that he might fall asleep himself. You turn your head enough to glance at the window, noting that the light has started to shift into the late evening hues for Snowdin. 

You should probably make dinner soon…

“paps and undyne are still out working on her house. i think they mentioned they’d be staying with alph tonight.” Sans continues, “so for now i think it’s just us.”

“Mmm. Remind me to go hang out with Alphy on my next day off,” you let go of his hand to stretch your arms over your head, arching your back and settling in more comfortably across his lap, “I owe her a day to be a guinea pig, and now that Undyne isn’t prowling around Waterfall waiting to kill me, I really have no excuse.” If the other two aren’t coming home tonight, then you don’t think you’re going to rush yourself to make dinner until you or Sans gets hungry -- and even then, you’ll probably just both go back to Grillby’s. You might have just gotten off of work, but Grillby’s was still the best food in town, and you wouldn’t mind going back for a night out to get tipsy and laugh at stupid shit with Sans and Sidney.

“still amazes me that you’re already on fairly comfortable terms with alphys.” he admits, though you notice the way his eyes trail along the length of your body for a few seconds too long after your stretch. You feel your mouth pull into a small smirk, but don’t say anything while he continues, “there’s still kinda this part of me that keeps thinking that’s out of order, that you shouldn’t even have met her yet.”

“Just another reason this timeline is the best one,” You announce. “Other than, you know,  _ me _ .”

“you  _ are _ my favorite reason for this timeline being a good one.” Sans teases, his mouth curling back into a more indulgent grin. You hum as he goes back to playing with your hair. 

“...wanna have a date night?” you finally ask, after a moment. You’re not entirely enthusiastic about getting dolled up to go out again tonight, but you want to spend time with him and you figure that you haven’t gone out on an official ‘date’ with him yet, unless you want to count going to Grillby’s with him the first couple of days you were here.

“date night?”

“Yeah,” you push yourself up again. “Like, I go get changed, we go out to Grillby’s, have good food, tell bad jokes, dance along with the jukebox, imbibe alcohol, I kiss you in front of Sinny so she gets jealous that she can’t retaliate by kissing Fuku yet, that sorta thing. Or at least we pick up Grillby’s to bring back home, since I don’t really wanna cook, and spend the evening watching bad Mettaton movies and making fun of everything that happens in them.”

He looks at you for a long moment, the eyelights in his eyes going soft and fuzzy and his smile softening as well. “sounds good to me, gumdrop.” He reaches up to tug gently on a bit of your hair, “i think i’m more down for a quiet night in, personally.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.” you grin. "And Sans?"  


"mhm?"

You lean forward to kiss him again, and it says everything you want it to say and more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (writes and erases "in other news I hate everything" roughly five times
> 
> compromises with this 'not actually writing it but there it is' note)


	53. Date Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it's the smallest things that make a night the most enjoyable.

Considering you’re both planning on just coming back home anyway, you don’t bother to get changed out of your work clothes yet. Sans grabs your hand and laces his bony fingers through yours, and pauses for a moment. You realize he had been about to immediately teleport, but instead he looks at you with a quizzical, embarrassed grin.

You squeeze his hand, remembering the last time he teleported with you (and the panic attack that followed). You think it’s been a little too soon since that last experience to try again, on your part, and you’d rather be safe and calm than sorry, at least for tonight. You’re still incredibly leery about letting anyone near you for _ healing _ , for Christ’s sake -- you’d scalded your hand on the stove a couple of days ago and had only consented to Papyrus healing it after Sans insisted that Paps would be faster, more efficient, and better with his healing magic. Undyne had looked like she was about to offer herself, but you had made eye contact with her and she apparently thought better of it. Still, right now, you ruefully shake your head. You don’t think you’re ready. 

He squeezes your hand back and pushes up off of the couch instead, pulling you up with him.

“let’s walk.” he announces, as though that exchange was completely unnecessary, “i wanna show you something anyway.”

“Oh?” you follow him toward the door, and out of it. He pulls you along with him around the side of the house to a little snowy tunnel set up.

“this works kinda like one of my ‘shortcuts’.” he explains, “except it’s a magically independent intraspacial corridor.”

“Um… I  _ think _ I understood all those words  _ individually _ , but not together.” you tilt your head at him. 

“it’s like a stable wormhole. you go in one side and the distance between the entrance and exit is shorter on the inside. it lets out right by grillby’s, i’m sure you’ve pro’ly seen the other side of it.” 

You let out a sound of understanding, leaning over until your shoulder rests against his. “Ohhh. Cool.”

“i figured it might be worth a shot, if you wanted to try.” he adds, smiling sheepishly. “i mean, since it’s stable, it just kind of works? no instigated magic like one of my shortcuts.”

You turn to look at him through your bangs, hesitating, before taking a deep breath and squeezing his hand. “Worth a shot, I guess.” you allow. “But, um… can we do it on the way back instead? The light’s nice right now. I kinda wanna walk with you.” You don’t mention the fact that if it somehow manages to still set you off, you want to be safely close enough to home to crash afterwards. Panic attacks aren’t fun, and they exhaust like nothing else, so you’d rather… well.

You're willing to _ try _ , but fuck everything, you're gonna be smart about it.

He squeezes your hand in his, and you both turn away from the tunnel with no further comments being necessary. Your heart rate slows a little bit from its uneasy stutter, as you walk close and slow with him through the brisk evening air of Snowdin.

“Thank you, Sans.” you murmur.

“no prob, gumdrop.” he leans his head over to bump the side of it against the side of your own. “just a thought. no necessity to go through with it if you don't want to.”

“I know,” there's a faint note of annoyance when you say it, “I just feel bad that… that I'm like this. It feels like I'm not trying hard enough.” you manage a sarcastic grin at him as he turns incredulously toward you,  cutting him off before he can speak, “And I  _ know _ , I know that's being ridiculous. It's not a rational feeling, but it's still  _ there _ .” you lift your free hand to gesture vaguely into the air in front of both of you, “Like,  believe me, I know I am not expected to be a protagonist of an epic story in  _ reality, _ but there's still this part of me that's just…  _ you're not progressing. _ You know? Like, you mentioned before how it felt like a script, but like… it really  _ does _ feel like I'm  _ supposed _ to be doing things, kinda.” you sigh, ducking your head a little. “Like I'm… I don't know. Like this isn't  _ meant _ for me,  but I still should be doing it because  _ I'm _ the one who's  _ here. _ ” 

You both pause underneath the Christmas tree in the center of the square, and you stare up at it with a nagging feeling of importance tugging at the edges of your thoughts. The tree seems so… out of place, kinda. It's normal, it's been there since you fell, you know that, but…

“... it's never gotten to christmas.” Sans admits softly as you both stare upward, giving you exactly the information you needed to make the nagging out of place feeling make sense. “since all this started, i mean. it's gotten close sometimes, the kid tried a few times to sorta… stay... but it never made it all the way to christmas. something always made ‘em reset.”

_ Something always killed them,  _ you translate silently in your head. 

You glance downwards, seeing the tiny golden petals pushing upward out of the snow.  _ I suspect I know what that  _ **_something_ ** _ always was. ‘Boring toys get discarded’, wasn't it? _

_ Well… I have until Christmas, if that. Better enjoy it while I can. _

You laugh, weakly, because if you can’t laugh in this situation you don’t know what you  _ can  _ do, before lifting your free hand to your breast bone. It’s the same very quiet, focused movement you had seen Frisk do once upon a time. Your soul thrums just underneath the surface, and you can feel it fluttering toward where your hand rests, instinctively reacting to the gesture because what else could you be doing, placing your hand on the center of your sternum like this? It rests so close, you can even feel the inconsistent, flickering warmth just underneath your skin. It really does feel like a tiny star putting off light in the center of your being.

If all of this,  _ everything _ , if all this really is all a game, then it’s a game you can’t win. You don’t even know if there is a _ way  _ to win. For anyone. And if there is, and if Frisk and their friend hadn’t found it after so many attempts and so many failures… how can someone like you be expected to figure it out? You don’t have an endless purgatory loop of resets to learn it, either. You’d accepted it before, you’re just going to die down here and that was going to be that, right?

You'd accepted it.

You… you'd accepted that.

You squeeze his hand and the both of you continue onward to Grillby’s. You’re not going to let any of this ruin what little time you  _ do _ have with everyone. Not even realizing you have less time than you hoped you did is going to change that.

The crunch of snow underneath your boots calms you down more than you think it really has any right to. When did the constant snow cover of Snowdin become comforting? You still aren’t built for cold, but somehow the chill bite in the air feels… nice. Like you can actually breathe a little bit easier. It chills you to your core but you feel… almost, warmed, as well.

You both huddle close under the eaves of Grillby’s doorway for a moment, while you blow out your breath and watch the fog raise up like steam for a moment before you both enter. This is going to be the first time anyone outside of your little household gets to see any concrete indication that you and Sans are dating, and this is a  _ small _ town, and small town gossip means that as soon as one person outside knows, everyone will know...  and you honestly almost feel like you have to take a moment to prepare yourself. The dissipating breath-fog is a helpful visual to latch your anxiety onto and send it away, at least for a moment.

Still… is it weird that you’re kind of looking  _ forward _ to everyone teasing you? You’re not used to this feeling.

As expected, as soon as you enter the restaurant, there’s several teasing hoots and hollers. Cyril chortles from the jukebox. “Is this an A6 or a C17 moment?” he calls, and you stick out your tongue at him before leaning your shoulder heavily against Sans’.

“Depends,” you tease back, “how long were all of you betting on  _ this _ plot twist with regards to my life?”

“Chiquita,” Red practically purrs from his seat, leaning toward you with his feathered hands on his knees, “You  _ are _ our favorite soap opera. Don’t tell Mettaton.”

You giggle and press your free hand to your pink cheeks as Sans tugs you into the soft familiar warmth and less-crazy ambiance of late-night Grillby’s, and Cyril drops a coin into the jukebox and punches in a number -- C17, ‘ _ And Yet At Last, Here We Are _ ’, a faintly celebratory tune that still somehow carries the sense of  _ About Damn Time. _ You make a face at him and pull Sans’ hand into the pocket of your borrowed hoodie as you both walk over to Grillby.

“two orders of burgs and fries, grilllbz, to go.” Sans is smiling -- he’s almost always smiling, but this particular smile still sends warmth blossoming deep in your gut and makes your cheeks flush. You realize maybe a little belatedly that you’re staring at him from the corner of your eye with a doofus-y smile on your face, mostly when Venus coos a melodic little teasing croon in your direction. The expression on their toothy face is an indulgent one. You feel your cheeks burn brighter, but Sans squeezes at your hand and that really doesn’t help how goofy your smile is.

God, this is exactly as nice as you thought it might be. You’re embarrassed, no doubt, but it’s still so  _ nice _ to be surrounded by people who can tease you without  any sense of malice inherent in the teasing itself. There are still times where you have to remind yourself that you  _ haven't _ known all these people for forever, because they all carry such an intense sense of  _ home _ with them and it's hard to describe. 

Grillby, behind the bar, doesn’t react much to the apparent non-revelation that his waitress and his most prolific customer (and friend) are now dating. He burns a bit more brightly, exuding a bit more warmth, and you  _ know _ he’s giving the equivalent of a pleased smile your way right now. Still, though, he pulls together your orders without any unnecessary smugness or amusement.

(You can’t help but notice that LD’s tail is wagging at the speed of sound, even while he’s very obviously struggling to remain a good boy and not jump all over you in congratulations. The other dogs are having similar struggles with their composure, if GD’s faint vibrating and Doggo’s lolling tongue are any indicator. Dogamy and Dogaressa are huddling close and their own tails are also wagging rhythmically, in time with one another.  _ God _ , they’re so in sync.)

You grab hold of the two bags before Sans can, sticking out your tongue at him and making a face. His own smile grows softer, fonder for a moment, before he gains a glint to his eyelights and a faint cyan glow overtakes one of them -- and suddenly he’s sticking out his own tongue, glowing blue and tapered off to a rounded point at the end. You blink at him, mildly startled.

“...You can make a tongue?” you ask, a bit inanely.

“i can do a lot of things.” he muses back as he pulls his tongue back into his mouth, his eye still glowing faintly and his mouth curling into a faint, pleased smirk.

“...I--” you cut yourself off, covering your mouth and staring at him more intently before you continue. “Look, I get that this is a flirty, possible innuendo thing--” you hold up a hand at him when he opens his mouth to speak again, cutting him off, still a bit baffled. “And believe me, I appreciate that, and I’m gonna  _ completely _ experiment when we’re back in private?” He seemingly chokes on air, his entire face going blue as the rest of the restaurant bursts into uproarious laughter. “I’m just... Sans, your abilities  _ baffle _ me sometimes.”

“ _ baffle _ you?” he squeaks, still bright blue.

“Like, forgive me, I’m sure you can do a bunch of  _ really fun shit _ with your apparent ability to  _ manifest body parts _ \--” More laughter from around you, and he’s hunching himself down into the fuzz around his jacket collar, his blush intensifying like his attempted flirting has backfired horribly, though he  _ is  _ still kind of grinning at you with an almost admiring glint in his eyes as you babble out your own incredulous amusement with the dry wit of a practiced comedian, “I’m just-- honestly? The only thing my brain is screaming at me right now is that this connects to your ability to summon bones in just, the  _ most _ hilariously inappropriate way, and it’s just-- stupidly  _ funny? _ Like,” you bite down for a moment on your knuckle, like you’re really heavily thinking about it, “do I  _ make _ the obvious  _ boner _ pun here, or--”

“oh, stars, but you are in a _ mood  _ aren’t you…?” he teases right back as he places the gold for your order on the counter for Grillby to scoop up. He’s still bright blue, but something about the glimmer in his eyes makes your own cheeks heat up as a surge of that ephemeral lighthouse-in-a-storm-fire-in-a-blizzard feeling builds up in your soul and almost overwhelms you for a moment. You bite down harder against your knuckle and duck your head down into the fuzzy fringe of the jacket you’ve pretty much stolen from him at this point.

(You try to ignore the impulsive little screech of  _ does it smell like him _ from your Hormones. You will… you will check that later. When he can’t see you do it. You’re a fucking  _ trash _ fire but you don’t need to be  _ that _ desperate.)

“Look, let’s just go,” you squeak, squeezing at his hand and turning with him toward the door again. “If you’re gonna make fun of me then you can make fun of me while we actually eat, come on.”

He lets out a low rumble of a chuckle as you drag him to the door and out into the snowfall again, but you only get a few steps away from the door before he’s digging in his feet and won’t let you pull him any further. You let out a faint whine as you let your weight list sideways, but he still holds you up with seeming ease and an amused grin.

“you said you’d try the tunnel.” he reminds you, tugging you upright again.

You let out another soft whine, overbalancing and letting yourself fall against him with a pitiful pout. “Do I have toooo?”

“come on, at least once.” he wraps an arm around your waist, shuffling you through the falling snow toward the little igloo-type building next to Grillby’s. The doorway opens into a deeper darkness, one that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and a small burst of your usual anxiety to bubble up in the bottom of your gut, but one quick glance at his encouraging smile has you taking a deep breath, squaring your shoulders, and nodding to yourself. You did agree to this. You are a girl of your word.

“Okay.” you murmur, closing your eyes tightly before letting go of his hand and stepping forward into the tunnel. The ground under your feet goes smooth and un-snowy, and you press forward a few steps, your heart pounding in your ears, before the crunch of snow under your feet again startles you enough to open your eyes. You had only gone about five feet, by your estimation, it couldn’t possibly--

But, no, there’s a new doorway open before you, and you can see the soft azure of a Snowdin evening spilling into the tunnel you’re standing in, and through that opening you can see the Christmas tree and-- beyond it, the dim orange glow of Grillby’s firelight sign. You turn almost immediately, blinking in confusion, and peer into the empty blackness behind you. No sign of the doorway you’d just come through -- you hadn’t even stepped far enough to leave the firelight, how is it already  _ gone _ ?

There’s another brief surge of magic in the air and then Sans is there, waiting outside for you, his grin quiet and indulgent. “see?” he asks. “magically independent intraspacial corridor. shouldn’t have been any kind of instigating magic, like i said.”

“Okay,” you allow, more than a little bit confused and the note of baffled question clear in your voice, but you decide to roll with it. He was right, there hadn’t been any burst of magic until his own ‘shortcut’, and while that had sent a brief shiver down your spine, it’s not nearly as bad as it once was. He holds out his hand for you again and you take hold of it, letting him pull you up out of the tunnel and toward the house again.

“I probably won’t use it unless I’m running late,” you admit, glancing over at him as you both tromp up the stairs to the front door, “But… that wasn’t bad.”

“fair. i’m glad you tried it though.” he allows, pausing and turning toward you before either of you can enter. He reaches a hand up to gently brush some of the snowfall out of your hair, smoothing down the places where the wind in the caverns has displaced it, and then his hand lingers against the side of your head, pressing warmth against your cheek and twisting a longer bit of hair around his bony fingers. You can’t really help but smile tiredly and lean into the touch, and he smiles back at you with that smaller, more indulgent smile again.

“Come on, bonehead,” you murmur. “Let’s go inside. It’s freezing.”

He follows you into the house again, and you both claim your usual places on the couch, splitting the fries and the burgers between the both of you. You flick a fry at his face, giggling when he snaps it out of the air with an unnatural ease between his teeth. He tosses one back your way, and you both laugh at your own incredible failure to emulate -- it bounces off your nose and falls into your lap.

“nice.” he teases. You stick out your tongue at him again, before picking up the dropped fry and chomping on it.

“Not all of us can be skilled at fry-aeromancy.” you faux-gripe. “I’m counting it a victory that it didn’t go in my eye.”

“heh,” he chuckles around the first bite of his burger, chewing for a couple of long seconds before swallowing (the fact that you've stopped questioning how he and Paps swallow things probably says a lot about your limits of disbelief) and speaking again, “you stood in place for undyne to throw spears your way but worry about getting a fry in your eye?”

“Hey, I trust that Undyne is gonna hit what she wants to hit, or not hit what she doesn't want to hit.” You’re laughing around the statement, leaning back into the arm of the couch and getting comfy. “My own capabilities to dodge or place myself where I want to be in relation to any projectiles? Miraculous and unreliable at best.” You wiggle another fry in his direction as you speak, “I took the chance that she meant it when she said I didn't have to worry. When it's just me trying to not get hit by flying objects, I'm hilariously hopeless without enough reaction time.”

Sans’ expression softens, some of the tension around his eye sockets loosening away as he smiles toward you, before he flicks a finger toward the remote, coating it in faint blue light and bringing it floating over toward himself. “so, makin’ fun of bad mettaton movies?” he grins, like the mere thought of your previous suggestion is incredibly enticing to him, “oooor…”

“Or?” you arch an eyebrow dryly. “Is this about my ‘experimenting’ comment?”

“maybe.” he tosses a roguish smirk your way. You throw another fry at him, this one hitting his forehead.

“Movies first, because we’re eating, Mr. Hopeful.” you snark, “If you’re good I’ll  _ consider  _ it.”

His growing smirk gives you the feeling that he’s accepting that challenge, and fully intending to hold you to that promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, I can write the second half to this date night (the chapter was getting too long) and have very little guarantees about how long it'll take me, or I can be somewhat mean and leave this as a fadeout and let y'all imagine what the rest of the night is like, but actually get moving into the Hotland things I wanna get into. I'll let that be the discussion topic for the comment section.
> 
> EDIT: Poll officially closed. Please take note that the Fic Rating has been upped to "Mature" and I'm honestly hilariously surprised that y'all voted that way. All NSFW chapters will be marked accordingly for those who want to skip.

**Author's Note:**

> Be sure to hit that kudos button and leave me a comment!! ❤
> 
> And also come hang out with me and chatter on my tumblr!
> 
> tinibopper.tumblr.com


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